


This Cold Land

by Emachinescat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Ranger's Apprentice - John Flannagan, Mistaken Identity, Suspense, Vikings, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raiders from the North attack Camelot, but plundering the coastal villages isn't all they want. They want the prince, but having never seen him before, accidentally grab the wrong man. While Arthur sets off on an impossible quest to find Merlin, the servant himself miles from home in frozen lands across the sea, the captive of brutal Vikings who think he's the prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Onäm the Mighty

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This is a work-in-progress, so chapters will be added as they are written.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Onäm the Mighty was the most feared man on the longship, perhaps in all of Holbaek. He stood well over six feet tall; he had an enormous barreled chest and bulging muscles defined his arms and legs. His hair was a matted, braided mess of red, brown, and gray as was his beard, and his face was so scarred that it seemed to have been carved by an inexperienced sculptor. His nose was once long, but now it curved downward drastically, due to the seven times it had been broken. He wore a sleeveless tunic and thin breeches, with only a helmet and breastplate for protection. Attached to his belt was a broad sword and a mace. He never wore or took anything more into battle, yet he always came out victorious. His bloodlust and lack of mercy were both admired and feared by allies and enemies alike. No one crossed Onäm, and if they did, Odin rest their souls.

Despite his fervor for battle and his notorious knack for leaving no survivors, Onäm was not the most intelligent Viking in the land. Still, what he lacked in brains he made up for in brute strength and no mercy. He had been chosen to lead this latest pillage with his crew because someone with the power and bloodlust like Onäm was needed to procure the most valuable prize in this endeavor While plundering the coastal villages in the great land of Camelot was the plan, there was something other than food, slaves, or riches, and Onäm would stop at nothing until he had procured his quarry.

He stood on the ship's deck, a spray of salty, frigid ice water hitting his disfigured face. A small, brown-haired lad, his servant, Kol, scurried to his side. "Sorry, Sir, but after the storm yesterday, the Captain said we're a bit off course. We'll be a few days off our planned schedule."

Onäm gripped the rail of the deck, his steely blue eyes glowering out at the endless ocean, the dragon-headed mast of the longship, and finally his gaze landed on Kol's anxious face. "Well, we'll just have to make up for lost time by being  _extra_ vigilant in our attack," Onäm mused, smirking. "We've never raided so close to Camelot before; those worthless villagers should get to know the wrath of Onäm. And then, I shall have the ultimate prize. By this time next year, the ransom will have been paid for Camelot's beloved prince and Holbaek will be the wealthiest village in all the Frozen Lands."

Kol nodded. "And then you won't have to go on any more raids for years."

Onäm smiled wickedly. "No. But that does not mean that we won't! Soon you will learn, Kol, that there are some things you do not do simply for the money, but for pleasure itself. And what I do… brings me great pleasure." His smile darkened and a hungry gleam took over his eyes. "Now go back to the Captain and tell him to make sure we move as fast as the winds will take us. We're going to have a guest soon, and I simply cannot  _wait_  to meet him."

Kol scurried away as quickly as his scrawny legs could carry him, and Onäm made a note to punish the boy for the Captain's delay later. He then stared out at the frothing ocean and imagined the fear in the eyes of the villagers when they realized that their homes were under attack. He thought of the prince, and how much fun it would be to break royalty, to show Camelot's heir who held the true power in this world. It wasn't the great cities and empires like many believed, but the villages, the plunderers, the outcasts. The Vikings.

And Onäm was the greatest Viking to ever live.

Of course, there was still the small problem of not knowing what this brat of a prince looked like, but Onäm figured it would be easy enough to find him. And if for some reason, he wasn't able to discern which noble was Prince Arthur, well… Onäm wasn't against slitting a few throats in order to acquire the information.

In fact, he was counting on it.


	2. Raiders in Gedref

"Arthur. Thank you for joining us. At last."

Arthur fought back a grimace at the exasperation in his father's voice. Behind him, Merlin twitched, and Arthur made a mental note to kill him after the council meeting was over. Merlin had been late – again – this morning. Normally, Arthur would simply throw something at his good-for-nothing servant, Merlin would (more often than not) dodge it but get hit anyway because he was terrible at dodging, Arthur would call him an idiot, he'd call Arthur a prat, and that would be that. But this morning, there was a council meeting that Merlin had known about  _last night_ , but still the servant had been nearly half an hour late in waking his master, causing the prince to be unfashionably late for the meeting. King Uther had  _not_  been amused, meaning that Arthur was not amused. Merlin wasn't so much of an idiot that he couldn't figure out what  _that_  meant. He was in so much trouble!

Arthur cleared his throat in embarrassment, feeling the eyes of the council on him. He noted that Gaius was pointedly avoiding Merlin's direction and understood that the physician didn't want his ward to get into trouble with the king if he could help it. Merlin  _had_  been late, but Arthur understood. His father hadn't been in the best of moods lately, and as irritated as Arthur was at the servant, he certainly didn't want to see him flogged for his ineptitude. Arthur made no mention of why he was late, also ignoring the servant behind him, and said, "I apologize, Father. It was unfair of me to make the council wait, especially when you have urgent news. Is it Cenred?"

The king studied his son for the briefest of moments before he seemed to accept the apology and move on. "Surprisingly, no. Cenred has been unusually quiet lately. This may simply mean that he is up to no good. The treaty between us is frail, failing. No one from Camelot can risk crossing the border. We are inches away from war, yet he does not make a move. This is a concern, but one for another day. Something just as grave has begun, this time in the area of Gedref."

Arthur knew this part of Camelot well. It was home to an ancient labyrinth. No one knew where the labyrinth came from, or who kept it up (it was composed of hedges), and no one ever asked. It was simply there, a gift from the ancients, perhaps, but most people from Camelot avoided the labyrinth because it had a mystical feel to it and anything mystical or magical was outlawed in Camelot. Arthur had been through it before, years ago, in order to atone for the destruction of a unicorn. It was there that he had drunk what he had thought to be poison to save Camelot – and to save Merlin's life.

The people of Gedref were right – the labyrinth  _did_ have connections to the mystic, for Amphora, keeper of the unicorns, had specified it as the location for Arthur's final test. From the slight shifting behind him, Arthur knew that Merlin was remembering the labyrinth as well. Either that, or he was getting antsy after being at the meeting for less than five minutes, which, knowing Merlin, was equally likely.

"Is it magic?" one of the councilmen asked, silver eyebrows knit in concern. "I have heard many a strange tale coming from that part of the kingdom. Anything as strange and twisted as the labyrinth cannot be good."

"No; rather, it has to do with the villages near the sea to the east of the labyrinth." There were several coastal villages in the area. The labyrinth opened up onto the beach, but several miles down, the beach turned into fishing and harbor towns.

Arthur was concerned at the seriousness in Uther's face and voice. "What is it, Sire?"

"Raiders. From across the sea."

Arthur blinked. He had heard tales, strange lore from the Western Isles about seafaring marauders with fearsome ships. According to the stories, they swept to land like a great dragon, rowed to shore with axes, swords, maces, and whips, and had horns like demons and spikes like a dragon's spine. They carried torches and burnt homes, carted off anything of value – sometimes even women and children – and then, as quickly as they came, they were gone, leaving destruction in their wake.

"I thought they were just a legend," said Gaius, beating Arthur to his incredulous response. "You are sure that these are not just bandits?"

"The escapees that fled to Camelot for aid described everything that they saw. I would have called the meeting sooner, but I had to find out everything that I could before we came to a decision. Apparently, these raiders have stationed themselves in the town. They have docked their ships on  _our_  harbors, made themselves comfortable in our people's homes, and are eating their food, packing up their gold and livestock, and killing anyone who challenges them. No one is allowed in or out of the villages."

Arthur knew exactly what had to be done. "We have to stop them," he said. "Drive them out of the village, show them that we are not afraid. Camelot's army is far stronger than their small fleet of ships. This is not like other kingdoms. We will fight back."

Uther dipped his head in agreement. "Arthur, you will lead this mission. I want you to take only one other knight at first, to survey the situation. I will send thirty more an hour or so behind you for the attack. Take your servant with you and send him back with a message for reinforcements if the enemy is greater than anticipated. Do not attack until you have more men, Arthur. I know you dislike to see Camelot's people suffering, as do I, but I will not lose you because of a rash decision to act on your own. Is this understood."

Arthur nodded, even though he did not like the thought of sitting by, watching and waiting for reinforcements while innocent people suffered longer than they must.

"Good," said Uther. "Prepare for the quest; you leave at once."

* * *

" I've heard stories about these raiders," said Merlin as he hurried to catch up with Arthur after the meeting was adjourned. Arthur was on his way to his chambers where Merlin was going to help him into his armor and pack for the journey. "But I didn't think they were real."

Arthur didn't respond.

"It's weird, though, isn't it? Because people say that they come and go. They don't stay or occupy the villages. So why're they doing it now?"

Still no reply.

"It's like there's more going on that we can't see," Merlin mused, either not aware or not caring that Arthur was ignoring him. Arthur quickened his pace, but so did Merlin. There was no escaping the constantly late, prattling idiot. "I dunno, Arthur, it doesn't feel right. Maybe you should—"

Arthur finally responded, wheeling around in the middle of the corridor and snapping, "Should what? Stay here and let my people suffer? Cower because of some legend from across the sea? Listen to the idiot whose tardiness made  _me_  look like an idiot in front of my father and the entire council, because he has a bad  _feeling_  about murderous raiders?"

Merlin blinked at the hostility in Arthur's tone. The prince, angry because a new threat was hurting Camelot that he knew virtually nothing about, and irritated at his servant for his lateness, wasn't done yet. "I protected you from my father this morning, Merlin, though only God knows why. With everything that is going on right now, he would probably have you flogged. You've got to start taking your job seriously, or I will not be able to help you anymore and you'll be on your own. There's only so much I can do for you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Go find Leon and make sure he is ready to depart. You can help me into my armor when you get back."

Merlin didn't respond, simply turning on his heel and walking off. "Merlin…"

Merlin turned.

"…the knights' quarters are that way." Arthur pointed in the opposite direction.

"I knew that," said Merlin testily, and Arthur couldn't help but crack a tiny smile that Merlin didn't see because his back was turned.

"Of course you did, Merlin."

Arthur continued on his way, guilt about his hostility toward Merlin warring for precedence in his mind with worry for the people of Gedref's coastal villages.

* * *

Merlin knew that Arthur was worried. He also knew that Arthur hadn't had breakfast, and a combination of the two made for a grumpy and overly harsh master. Merlin realized that the worry wasn't his fault, although the breakfast thing most definitely was. If he hadn't overslept, he would have woken the prince up in time to actually get something to eat. As it was, it was mid-morning already and Arthur still had an empty stomach. Since Merlin understood what Arthur was feeling, he didn't challenge the prince as much as he normally would have after Arthur's angry words. Besides, Merlin was just as concerned about the raiders as Arthur was. Like most people in Camelot, he had heard whispers of these giant men who destroyed lives and stole livelihoods, but this newest development did not match anything that Merlin had ever heard.

He couldn't explain it; maybe it was his magic, or maybe pure intuition, but somehow, he knew that something was wrong. He knew that Arthur would go with only Leon and Merlin no matter what the latter said to convince him otherwise. After all, the king had ordered it to be so. It was obvious that Uther did not think that a scouting mission would be this dangerous, but he wanted someone he trusted completely to send back news of the goings on in Gedref, and so he was sending his son. Since Arthur was too proud to take anyone else anyway, and was known for doing stupid and reckless things when someone was in danger, Merlin knew that he would just have to be extra vigilant in order to protect Arthur.

It should be simple, really, because Merlin was used to shielding his master from powerful witches, sorcerers, and magical creatures. Mortal men, no matter how large or foreign, should be a breeze to protect him from.

So why did he feel so anxious?

* * *

Kol approached his master hesitantly. Onäm was reclining on a villager's bed, in their home, while the terrified family huddled together in the corner of the bedroom. Two Vikings stood inside of the only exit, daring the woman or her two teenage sons to try and escape. The father had already tried, and had been cut down in cold blood. His body still lay in the doorway, lifeless, while his agonized family shook in the corner with silent, horrified sobs. Kol's stomach twisted violently and he forced himself to focus on the task at hand and not at the merciless cruelty of his people. No, not  _his_  people, he reminded himself. Never his people. Not again, not after…

He shook himself mentally. As much as he detested the situation he was in, he had to do his job, and at this moment, said job was reporting the information that Onäm's right hand man, Alrik, had discovered about the prince's identity.

"Sir?"

Onäm turned his steely, ever-bloodthirsty gaze to his servant, and Kol had to force his knees to stop trembling. "You'd better have good news, you little swine," his master sneered. "Otherwise… I may change my mind about lessening your punishment for our delay."

Kol gulped, knowing that the only reason the man had decided to "lessen" the punishment was so that he could use it to control his servant and make him even more miserable. "Good news, Sir. Alrik sent me to tell you that he has obtained invaluable information about this prince."

Onäm smiled, but this only served to make him appear more terrifying. "Oh, my dear lad… do tell."


	3. Mistaken Identity

"This is  _not_  good."

Arthur took a moment to glance away from the occupied village, glaring at his servant. Merlin was crouching behind some bushes near the crest of a hill that overlooked the coast, sandwiched between his master and Sir Leon. "Really, Merlin?" Arthur hissed irritably at the servant. "Because it looks wonderful to me! The entire village is occupied by these bloodthirsty animals, my people are terrified and  _dying_ , and all I have is one knight and my idiot servant, whose only talent seems to be stating the obvious!" He said this in a hoarse whisper.

"Arthur, your father is sending reinforcements," Leon reminded the prince kindly. "If Merlin will ride back to Camelot, the king will send more men, and sooner."

Arthur kneaded the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I know, I know. Merlin—"

"I don't think I should go," said Merlin suddenly, interrupting Arthur. "You're already in a delicate state of mind over this, and I don't want to come back to find that you've gotten yourself killed because you're not thinking straight."

Arthur glowered. " _Merlin_.  _I_  am a knight.  _I_ obey orders, unlike some people, and  _I_  will not charge ahead without backup when the king ordered me not to."

Merlin sighed. "I know. But I also know that you are the kind of knight, the kind of prince that cannot stand to see your people suffer."

Arthur looked at Merlin, and for a moment, Merlin felt as if he could see through the prince's icy blue eyes and into his very soul. The sadness at what was being done to his people, the anger at those who were inflicting the pain, and the determination to set this right shone in Arthur's gaze. And just as suddenly, the door was shut and Arthur's face and eyes were as impassive as ever. "Do me a favor, Merlin, and stop trying to be a hero. Ride back to Camelot, immediately, and tell my father that we need more men  _now_."

Merlin, realizing that he had no choice but still hesitant to leave Arthur and Leon alone in this situation, turned and got ready to stand when a voice rang out from his left. "I'm afraid to say that I cannot let any of you leave, my lord."

Merlin turned his head, craning to look at the trees surrounding the hill, and to his surprise, several well-muscled, fur-clad men with gleaming helms and battle axes were slipping out of the woods with surprising stealth. Arthur, Merlin, and Leon all stood to face the new threat, but found that they were surrounded by six of the raiders. The leader, who had been the one to speak, was by far the largest man Merlin had ever laid eyes on. His face was scarred, his arms were bulging, and his hair was matted. Arthur raised his sword, ready to fight, but before he could land the first blow, the man spoke again and his voice was cruel, harsh, and unusually accented. It was obvious, not only by his outlandish appearance, but by the way he spoke, that he was not from Camelot, or anywhere remotely close to it.

"What do you want?" Arthur demanded angrily. "Why do you continue to plague this village?"

"We came only for one thing, Sir Knight," said the man, grinning wickedly. "And once we have it, you'll be free to go."

"I ask you again,  _what_  do you want?"

"The prince," the raider said. His eyes scanned the three men before him. He smiled. "And luckily for me, he's already here. I have to say, your highness, you don't  _look_  very princely."

Arthur's mouth opened indignantly to protest what he was sure to have thought an outrageously insulting, but he never got around to it. The leader, still smiling darkly, ordered, "Get them."

* * *

Morgana ducked behind an old house – more of a hovel, really – and slipped away from the chaos of the village of Gedref. No one noticed her leaving because they had never seen her arrive. She had snuck in, worked some magic, and now, having completed her task, was leaving the village to its fate. Soon the raiders would have what they wanted, and they would leave Camelot. She had nothing else to do here.

She walked briskly away from the village along the sandy coastline dotted with spots of grass, her red cloak billowing behind her. Suddenly, the odd feeling came over her that she was being watched. She spun around to see an old woman several feet behind her, wrapped in a shawl. She knew who this was, and was surprised and grateful to see her sister here, disguised by magic as an old crone.

"Sister," Morgana said, making her way back to Morgause, the sand sticking to her shoes and slowing her down. "What are you doing here?"

The old woman smiled knowingly and briefly embraced Morgana. "I know you too well, Sister," she said, "and I knew that once word of the raiders from across the sea came to Camelot, you would want to see for yourself."

"I can take care of myself," Morgana protested, but in actuality she was pleased that Morgause wanted to make sure that she didn't run into any trouble. "And I overheard something. Apparently, they want Arthur."

Morgause's eyes were wide. "If we allow them to take the prince, we will not be able to deal with him ourselves when the time is upon us. We may yet have further need of the boy, Morgana."

"I know," Morgana smirked. "After all, if there's anything that Arthur is good for, it's being manipulated, and through him, it is easier to get to Uther. I do not pretend to know all of your plans, Morgause, but I do understand that Arthur may very well be a part of them. So I made sure that they wouldn't take him." She smiled deviously, proud of her initiative.

"How?" Morgause questioned.

"They didn't know anything about Arthur," Morgana replied slyly, "and so I used magic to ensure that the people they questioned about the identity of the prince gave them the wrong description…"

* * *

Arthur was furious. The three of them had put up a good fight (even Merlin, who had somehow wound up with one of the bandit's swords), but as it turned out, they were even more helplessly outnumbered than the prince had previously assumed. There were about four more of their attackers lying in wait in the woods, and they came out to join their comrades as soon as they saw that between Arthur and Leon (Merlin wasn't putting up  _that_ good of a fight), the tides were being turned.

Arthur knew one thing: he was  _not_  going to let these men take him. They probably wanted to ransom him, which meant that while they would have no problem wounding him, they wouldn't kill him. Still, he was losing ground, he was exhausted, and despite his sheer, stubborn refusal to be beaten, it was three (or two and a half, Arthur thought in exasperation as he saw Merlin flat on the ground, eyes wide;  _this_  was the Merlin he was used to seeing) against ten and these men were monsters. He watched as Merlin struggled to his feet and dove out of the way of a broken branch that one of the new reinforcements was wielding. Leon was panting, bleeding, and bruised, and Arthur knew that he himself had acquired some injuries. The extent of these, however, he didn't know.

Finally it was over. Leon and Merlin were both weaponless, and Arthur's arms were so drained that he could barely lift his own sword. The prince's head was light and fuzzy and he vaguely wondered if he had gotten hit on the head at one point. He felt the warm trickle of blood seeping down his face.

Two swords, a battle axe, and a tree branch were now at his throat and Arthur saw that already, Leon and Merlin were being bound by the raiders. Arthur had no choice, and although he hated surrendering, sometimes that was what a knight had to do. He only hoped that his father would hurry up and send the reinforcements already; it had to have been close to an hour by now. With a growl of anger, Arthur threw down his sword and put his hands in the air, signaling his surrender. Immediately, his arms were dragged behind his back and bound there securely. He grunted as he felt a cut in his arm stretch and felt blood soaking through his sleeve beneath the chainmail. The prince grimaced, realizing that his injuries might be a bit worse than he thought. His vision was blurry.

Their prisoners bound and gagged, the ten burly men took a step back and stared in satisfaction at their work. "You know," said one with curly blonde hair and a horned helmet on his oversized head that was so scarred it looked like a bear had chewed on it for a while, "it was a clever trick, that." Arthur had no idea what the man was talking about and he could feel his mind wandering with the pain in his head, arm, and side. "Dressing as a commoner as a means of keeping yourself safe and invisible. Too bad your own people are cowards, Prince Arthur. With the right incentive, they told me many things about their 'beloved' prince."

Arthur was  _quite_  confused now, because he was pretty sure that he was wearing chainmail and armor and not common clothing. He glanced hazily at his companions and saw that Leon's eyes were wide and that Merlin, the quietest Arthur had ever heard him due to the gag, looked as baffled as the prince. Arthur found himself checking the servant over for injuries, even in his bleary state, and it didn't look like Merlin had sustained more than a small cut on his shoulder. Arthur wondered how that had come about, considering Leon looked worse for the wear and he himself was beaten like hell.

Their captors were speaking again, but Arthur found himself going in and out, only hearing bits and pieces of what was going on. "… for ransom … if your father cooperates … home … someday … best behave … never said what condition … sent home in … now just for fun—"

There was a loud smack and then a groan, and Arthur forced his eyes open to see that Leon had just been clobbered by the leader of the men and he knew that Merlin would be next. _Just for fun_. There was no reason for the men to knock their enemies out; they were tied up and helpless until help arrived. There was also no reason not to kill them, but Arthur, even in his dazed state, knew that it was not mercy that stayed their hand, but the idea of the sense of failure they would feel when they woke and discovered their prince was gone. Arthur took as deep of a breath as he could through the pain, knowing that he was about to be taken. He would have to try  _something_  to escape; he wasn't going to be taken on their ships as a prisoner.

Arthur heard Merlin grunt in surprise and looked toward the serving boy, expecting to see him sprawled on the ground, unconscious. Instead, he was awake and fighting as he was pulled to his feet by a mess of the raiders. What were they doing with his servant? If they harmed a hair on his head, Arthur would—

Arthur never got to finish his mental threat. There was a blinding flash of pain, a rainbow of red, black and white obscuring his vision, and then all went dark and silent.

* * *

Merlin struggled wildly, his stomach clenched in fear as he was hauled away from an unconscious Arthur and Leon. What the hell was going on? For some reason, these men had it in their heads that  _he_  was Prince Arthur. If Merlin hadn't been gagged, he would have been  _glad_ to set the record straight and inform them that he could  _never_  be as big of a prat as the true Prince Arthur.

But because of this confusion, Arthur was safe. Well, he had been hit on the head, but he hadn't been taken prisoner. Merlin glanced around at the gathered villagers who watched with hope as the raiders began packing up their ship with the village's belongings. It seemed to Merlin that they didn't care that their things were being stolen, only that these monsters were out of their homes.

Merlin didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to use magic to make the ropes snap and make an escape, but the other part wanted to wait for Uther's reinforcements so that he could know Arthur was alright before he acted, just in case something went wrong. Then he saw where they were prodding him toward, and he made up his mind. Apparently, they knew that help would be on the way and they were getting ready to set sail as soon as possible. Merlin wasn't going to risk being put on that boat and taken away. He'd escape and while they were looking for him, they would be delayed.

He closed his eyes briefly to hide the flash of gold and the ropes snapped. He was surrounded by four raiders, each about four times bigger than him, but he used surprise to his advantage. Hands free, he ducked down and dove between the legs of one of the men. There was a shout of anger and shock as Merlin darted away, tearing the gag away from his mouth. He had to keep them busy until Uther's reinforcements arrived.

But, as per usual, Merlin hadn't exactly thought everything through. Yes, he had managed to escape the clutches of four men, but there were another two dozen or more in the village. Merlin discreetly used magic to make two of his pursuers slip in a mud puddle that wasn't there before. Three tripped over stones. Two more ran into clotheslines. Merlin was just about at one of the houses, which he hoped would have a back door to let him out of the confines of the village. He planned to cut through the house as a shortcut and use magic to confuse the raiders. Then, the plan was a bit fuzzy, but it basically consisted of: Run like hell and get to Arthur.

He was reaching for the door handle when the door itself was swung open from the inside, smacking Merlin in the forehead and knocking him over. He lay there, stunned, and saw that a thin, brown-haired boy a few years younger than himself was staring at him from the doorstep, having just flung open the door and unknowingly hindered Merlin's escape.

Merlin, dazed, struggled to his feet but it was too late. They were on him, and this time they weren't taking any chances. He saw the fist coming at him, but it was too late to stop it. It crashed into his skull and everything went dark.

* * *

Kol stared at what he had just done. He had heard chaos from outside of the house he was supposed to be searching for loot and had run to the door, throwing it open to see what was going on. Unfortunately for the fleeing Prince Arthur, Kol had always had an uncanny knack for clumsiness resulting in injuries, whether they be to himself or the other party. With a smack, the door hit the skinny, dark-haired prince in common garb and he toppled over, stunned.

Kol simply stared at the prince, thinking to himself that the prince did not look very princely. The two locked eyes for a second, and Kol saw fear, anger, and power there. Power so great that for a moment, the young Viking apprentice nearly backed away. Now he could see the prince in the boy.

Then the Vikings swarmed the prince and Kol knew that the fight was over. Onäm strode away from the scuffle as Alrik and Erak hauled the unconscious boy to the ship. The leader then turned back, eyes gleaming maliciously. "There might be hope for you yet, boy. You caught the prince. You won't be punished for the captain's delay tonight." Kol felt relief in knowing that he wasn't going to have to deal with an angry master later. A bit of guilt sunk into his mind, however, at Onäm's next words.

"I'll punish the prince instead."


	4. While We Were Waking

Arthur woke up slowly. He didn't remember what had happened at first, and found himself wondering where he was, how he had gotten there, and perhaps most importantly, what he was doing there. He seemed to be lying on something soft, as well as  _under_  something soft, and his mind was so muddled that it took him a good five minutes of heavy reasoning to realize that this must mean he was in a bed, and judging by the high comfort level and the softness of the blankets over him, it was probably his own bed.

Ah. So that answered question number one. Now for the other two.

He didn't remember getting into bed, so after another five minutes of deep, intense thought, he surmised that this might mean that someone had put him in the bed. Then again, he realized, he couldn't remember much of anything right now, so he might have very well climbed into bed after a long, grueling day of training and simply not remember it. Something about the latter scenario didn't set well with the prince, however, and he decided that it probably wasn't the case. If the pounding in his head, lack of memory, and the various aches over his body were anything to go by, he'd gotten injured and had been put to bed by someone else.

If his reasoning were right, then he had just answered the last two questions in one: He had been tucked in his bed by someone because he had been hurt. There, that sounded reasonable. And it had only taken him a quarter of an hour to figure it out!

But if this were the case, then  _how_  had he gotten hurt, and what had happened? He decided that he might be able to figure this out easier if he were to actually open his eyes and look around, but he found that he didn't really want to. His eyelids were so heavy that he couldn't bring himself to lift them. He'd go back to sleep for a little while, and then when he had woken up and was feeling better, he'd call for Merlin and find out just what had happened –

Merlin.

A pang of anxiety shot through Arthur's chest, and he tried to figure out why the mere thought of his clumsy servant's name worried him so much. Something had happened, something quite bad, as far as Arthur could tell, and the swirl of uneasiness in his gut at the thought of Merlin indicated that whatever it was, Arthur's servant was the crux of it, or at the very least, involved in it somehow.

Arthur battled with his bleary mind for a good moment or two before deciding that he had to wake up and remember what Merlin had done this time. There was no end to the amount of trouble that Merlin was capable of getting himself into, and Arthur wasn't going to be any good getting the ridiculous idiot out of it if he were laid up in bed.

Determined, Arthur struggled to open his eyes and felt a sense of triumph when he finally succeeded and his eyelids fluttered open. His vision swam for a few seconds as he tried to get used to consciousness, and then he focused on the view that was right in his line of sight. It was a rich, red canopy, and he realized with pride that his instincts had been right – he was indeed in his bed.

With a great deal of effort (and some rather un-princely grunting), Arthur managed to roll his body over slightly, so that he was looking to the left. There, seated in his favorite chair, watching him with mismatched eyebrows and a defeated facial expression, was Gaius. The physician gave Arthur a wan smile when he saw that his charge had woken, but did not react otherwise. Arthur took this as a hint that he had to take the initiative and start the conversation, even if his mouth felt like a leech had sucked all of the moisture out of it, and then some.

"Gaius," Arthur rasped. "Wha' happ'ned?"

Gaius, for his part, looked quite ashamed that he had not come to his patient's aid sooner, and leaped to his feet faster than Arthur thought possible for the old man. He walked out of Arthur's line of sight and came back moments later with a cup of water, which he proceeded to help Arthur gulp down several sips of. When Arthur had had his fill and his mouth didn't feel like a desert, he asked his question again, this time with all the proper syllables in place.

"What happened, Gaius?"

Gaius looked mildly concerned as he pulled his chair closer to Arthur's bed and sat down. "You don't remember, Sire?"

An anxious Arthur was never a patient Arthur, and this occasion was no exception. Arthur stopped himself from making a sarcastic and biting remark about how he wouldn't have very well asked if he could remember, now could he, reminding himself that this was Gaius he was talking to and not Merlin, and the aged physician who had done so much for the royal family deserved better than Arthur's snippy retorts.

"No," he answered in a forced-calm voice. "Not much, anyway. I just know that Merlin has something to do with whatever's going on." When he saw the agonized look that passed over Gaius's face at the mention of his ward, Arthur knew that he was on the right track with his hunch. Despite his concern, Arthur took a moment to inwardly congratulate himself for his remarkable mental capabilities, even when all but incapacitated. "Gaius… tell me. Where's Merlin?" Arthur tried to pretend that the worried knot in his stomach wasn't growing with each passing moment, and when it grew to the point that it could no longer be ignored, Arthur changed strategies and tried to pretend that the knot hadn't stemmed from worry about Merlin. That didn't quite work, either, but Arthur didn't really care.

Gaius was in full physician mode now, leaning in to look into Arthur's eyes, feel his brow, and check his wounds – which apparently consisted of a bad lump on his head, a gash on one arm, some major bruises on his chest, and a pretty nasty cut on his right shin. Arthur huffed when Gaius opted to examine him before answering his question, but Gaius ignored him.

When he had finally finished, Gaius sat back down and said, "You should really try to remember yourself, Sire. I believe that your loss of memory is very temporary, spawned from the trauma to your head. If I simply hand your answers to you, your brain may not feel the need to recover as soon as possible. Try to remember."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, which resulted in a flash of pain in his head (that wasn't his smartest move) and asked, "Are you trying to… blackmail… my brain into working again?"

Gaius gave a half smile and shrugged. "You can call it what you will, Arthur, but I do believe that your mind will react better if you at least  _attempt_ to remember."

Arthur smirked but did as Gaius had suggested, gingerly laying his head back and closing his eyes, trying to recall even the smallest scrap of information that would tell him what had happened to Merlin. He looked pitifully up at Gaius, who was watching him intently. "Come on, Gaius, can't you give me just a  _little_  hint?" the injured prince pleaded.

Gaius deliberated, but finally sighed and said, "Do you remember anything about the council meeting yesterday morning?"

Arthur thought hard. Suddenly, something came to him. "I was late, wasn't I? Because of Merlin! He…" Arthur trailed off, racking his brain for memories but not being able to conjure them in any semblance of order. "I… don't know."

Gaius looked at the prince almost mournfully, and Arthur demanded, "Tell me what happened to Merlin. Is he alright, Gaius?"

Gaius hesitated. He opened his mouth, about to respond, but was interrupted as King Uther swept regally into the room, hastening to his son's bedside. "Arthur!" the king breathed, relieved that his son was awake and apparently lucid. "How are you feeling?" Without waiting for an answer, Uther spun on Gaius. "How is he feeling?" he asked, every bit the concerned father, a side that Arthur rarely ever saw of the man.

Gaius glanced between the two royals before answering, "He is responding as well as can be expected, Sire. He has lost a bit of memory, and does not recall how his injuries happened. I believe that it would be best if his memories returned in their own time. He is showing no sign of infection and his wounds are healing nicely. He will recover completely, given time and rest."

Uther nodded, clasping Gaius firmly on the shoulder in thanks. "You have always served me well, Physician. Thank you for caring for my son." He nodded, dismissing Gaius from the room.

Arthur glared moodily at Gaius, not at all happy that he was to be kept in the dark about whatever had happened. Now that his father believed that it was best if Arthur wasn't told anything, he would be hard pressed to discover what had happened to his servant unless he dug into his mind and retrieved the memories himself.

Suddenly, Arthur didn't feel so pleased with himself anymore, and he resigned himself to a visit of mindless chatter with his father, who spoke of nothing but taxes, how evil magic was, and the kitchen's new strawberry tarts, determined not to impede his son's recovery in any way. Of all the times that King Uther had to act like a caring father, this was the most inopportune, and Arthur had to admit that he had never been less happy to know that his father was concerned about him.

* * *

Merlin woke up to the strangest sensation. He felt like he was floating, back and forth, and although the feeling wasn't necessarily unpleasant, it wasn't very enjoyable either. He heard an odd sound, like water splashing , and he realized that he must have been on a boat. Why on earth was he on a boat? The only boat he had ever been on was the little dinghy that he had used to get to the Isle of the Blessed.

A particularly large wave rocked whatever vessel Merlin was on, and everything suddenly came back to the warlock. The raiders from the North, the strange case of mistaken identity, and the door that had hindered his escape. Merlin tried to quell the rising fear as he realized that he had been taken onto one of the raiders' boats. He was a captive, and if they were out at sea like the rocking boat and splashing waves were telling him, then there was going to be no easy escape. Merlin could do magic, yes, but there was something that he couldn't do, and that something was swim.

Merlin's eyes jerked open as the full severity of his predicament rained down on him, igniting a fierce spark of panic. After clearing his vision, he saw that he was lying on a hard, lumpy cot in a tiny, unfamiliar room. There were no windows, and the only piece of furniture present was the cot and a small stool in the far corner of the room near the door. The stool was currently occupied by a small, nervous looking kid a few years Merlin's junior. The boy had brown hair and wide eyes, and was staring timidly at the prisoner.

Merlin realized that his right shoulder was aching fiercely, and glanced up to see that his right wrist had been secured one of the cot's posts. He managed to wriggle into a slightly more comfortable position, alleviating a bit of the pressure on his shoulder, and made eye contact with his visitor, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world but here. Both young men sat in silence, staring at one another, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally, the strange boy spoke. "Sorry about the door," he said in an odd, lilting accent similar to the one used by the raiders, but not as harsh or guttural. "Didn't know you'd be standing in front of it."

Merlin brought his left hand to his right shoulder, slowly massaging the irritated joint as he studied the other boy. The kid didn't look like a big threat, but Merlin knew that looks could be deceiving. Still, there was something in this boy's eyes that made Merlin want to trust him, if only a little. Merlin, knowing that he couldn't afford to even consider trusting anyone on this ship, responded stiffly, "Who are you?"

The boy gulped. "Erm… my name's Kol?" he answered, sounding unsure of himself. Merlin refused to pity him, even if he was ridiculously nervous for whatever reason.

"You don't sound too sure of that," Merlin pointed out, his voice still emotionless. "I'm M—Arthur," he quickly corrected, knowing that if these men found out that he wasn't actually the prince of Camelot, they'd kill him in heartbeat. He had to come up with a plan, and until he did, he was going to have to play along and pretend to be royalty. That should be interesting.

Kol furrowed his eyebrows. "Trust me, I know. You're all everyone's been talking about this whole raid. Personally, I don't see what all the fuss is about. No offense."

Merlin raised his eyebrows, ignoring the pounding in his head and jaw from being knocked out. "Offense taken," he replied, trying to sound as prattish as possible. If he had to be Arthur, he was going to go all out in his imitation of the prince. "Now tell me, what do you want with me?"

Before Kol could answer, the door to Merlin's prison swung open and the humongous leader of the raiders that Merlin had seen earlier ducked through the door and into the room. He was so large that he took up most of the small cabin. Merlin did his best to look disinterested like Arthur would most likely do, but he found it hard when looking between Kol's terrified and suddenly sympathetic gaze and the lead raider's bulging muscles.

"Well, hello, your highness," the leader sneered, showing off no more than ten yellow teeth. "We've been waiting all night for you to wake up. And now that you're back with us, the crew and I have decided that it's time for a little entertainment." Merlin's eyes grew wide as the man backed out of the room to allow two smaller (but not by much) raiders to enter the room, heading for Merlin.

"Bring him. It's time to have some fun."


	5. One Man's Entertainment Is Another Man's Pain

They unlocked Merlin's wrist from the bed and dragged him out of the small room, down several dark, narrow hallways, and up several sets of steep, creaky stairs. The whole time, the ship continued to shift and bob under their feet, and Merlin's stomach shifted and bobbed with it. His head was still spinning from having just woken up – he might even have a concussion – and along with the horrible sensation that Merlin could only attribute to seasickness, his stomach was knotted up with anxiety about his current situation, and about Arthur's. The  _real_  Prince Arthur hadn't looked so good after that heavy blow to the head, and Merlin hoped he was recovering and hadn't been harmed further in any way. A part of him also wished that Arthur was well and on his way to rescue Merlin, because at this point the secret wizard and pseudo prince really had no idea how he was going to get out of this one while he was stuck out in the middle of the ocean. Another part of him wanted the complete opposite, because Arthur really didn't need to risk his life for Merlin's yet again, especially when the stakes were  _this_ high.

Merlin's blurry internal debate was brought abruptly to a halt as he and his massive captors arrived at their destination: It was a large, airy room, but still not out in the open air. There were small windows dotted along the ship's walls, and Merlin could see the sparkling ocean – a beautiful sight from being safe on a beach and not surrounded by raiders perhaps, but terrifying to Merlin in his current predicament.

There were several other raiders in the room, and Merlin did a quick head count to see just how outnumbered he was. It didn't look good. Other than the three men that had escorted him here (Kol was nowhere to be seen at the moment, but Merlin didn't pay his absence much mind because he had more pressing things to worry about), there were seven other great bearded giants with bulging muscles, horrendous body odor, and leering faces around him. Merlin didn't think that this was all of the raiders, but he supposed that some of them had to steer the ship, man the sails, and do whatever else it was that people on boats were supposed to do. Either way, he was vastly outnumbered physically with just  _one_  of these men, and with ten of the largest brutes he had ever seen surrounding him, he didn't even know that his magic would be much use here, especially since they were still on a boat.

The leader shoved Merlin forward, and he stumbled, still not quite used to the rocking under his feet. Merlin straightened up, held his head up high, and tried not to get sick on the dingy floor of the deck. After several moments' silence, Merlin spoke up in the haughtiest voice he could manage, as he had a feeling that this was just what Arthur would have done – no matter how stupid it seemed to the sorcerer servant who prided himself to be much wiser than "the other side of the coin". "Well?" he said. "Why am I here? I assure you, if you want me to do a jig or juggle for your amusement, you're out of luck. I'm rubbish, and even if I weren't, I wouldn't stoop so low as to degrade myself by doing it for  _you_."

Damn. Had he said too much? Merlin knew Arthur like he knew the back of his own hand, and yet he was so flustered right now that he wasn't sure how much of the prince he was conveying through his words. Merlin himself prattled on when he was nervous, and he had a feeling that he sounded more like a bumbling idiot than a smart-mouthed, clever-clogs of a prince right now. His burly audience was quiet for a short time, but then they burst out into a collective laugh, which was, in Merlin's opinion, much scarier than when they had been glaring at him. Now, he could see their teeth, which were rotten, or missing, or a combination of the two.

"So you're a joker, eh?" a brown-haired raider with a beard braided into three uneven parts chortled. "Who woulda thought, the great Prince Arthur's a funny-man?"

"I think it's funny that  _he_ _'_ _s_  a prince at all!" another man belted out, his eyes gleaming darkly. "Wee stick of a man, he is! Not even enough there to clean between my teeth!" The odd thing was, this particular raider only had four teeth, and saliva flew out of his mouth with every syllable.

Merlin grimaced to show his disdain for the comments and insults that were hurled his way, each one more slanderous and disgusting than the last, until Merlin was having to do his best not to go completely red in the face. As it was, his ears were burning, and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides. It took all of his willpower  _not_  to lash out with his magic. If he did, and even if he managed to take out all of these heavily armed men, then what? Starve to death on this tub? No, he had to bide his time and deal with his current predicament as best he could.

"Aw, look, lads," a bald raider with such a large beard that it looked like all the hair from his head had moved to his face, "the prince's feelings are hurt!"

Merlin tried to calm his raging emotions and said in a voice so calm that he barely registered it as his, "A prince is not to be judged by his stature alone, nor by his size and features. A true test of his worth is of his skill as a warrior, his victories in battle, the wisdom of his rule, and the strength of his heart. You may be abnormally large, brutish men, but you have not the mental capacity, the honor, or the wits about you to even  _begin_  to compare with me. Keep your insults, your slanders, and your heated words, because compared to me, compared to  _Camelot_ , a small band of weak-minded raiders is  _nothing_."

Silence.

Okay,  _now_  maybe he had said too much, but no matter what the consequences, Merlin didn't regret his words. He knew that they were something Arthur would say, and they were also straight from his heart – not necessarily referring to Merlin, though, because although he was pretending to be the prince, he was still speaking of  _Arthur._  For while Arthur was still a grand prat when he wanted to be, and didn't always make the right decision, he was a hundred times the man of any of these enormous idiots. As for the horrible things they'd said against Merlin specifically, Merlin just tried to brush off the disgusting comments and thought about Camelot, his friends, and Arthur. He would make it through this and back home, he decided, but winced inwardly as he realized that the men were encroaching upon him, enraged.  _If_  he didn't manage to make his captors so mad that they killed him despite the potential ransom money, that is.

Even as Prince Arthur, Merlin  _really_ needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

The amount of guilt on Sir Leon's shoulders was weighing down on him greatly as he left the prince's chambers, more flustered and concerned than he had been upon entering them thirty minutes ago. Prince Arthur hadn't been able to have any visitors until then, and as Leon had just been released from Gaius's care with the diagnosis of a bad bump to the head, but nothing too serious, he wouldn't have been able to visit the prince, even if Arthur had been allowed visitors before now. Apparently, Arthur had gotten hit by a bigger, stronger raider than Leon had, or maybe he just had a slightly thicker head than the prince, but somehow Leon wasn't sure that was entirely true – nothing against Arthur, of course. Unlike Arthur, whose head injury had been relatively worse than Leon's, the knight could remember most of what had happened when the raiders had attacked them yesterday morning.

Unfortunately, he had let that slip to Arthur, who apparently, according to Gaius, had a mild bout of short-term amnesia, and he couldn't remember anything other than that there had been raiders and he had been hurt. The physician had told Leon before the knight's visit that Prince Arthur was absolutely  _not_  to be given any information that he didn't already have, because it could not only damage his head by not allowing him to remember for himself, but it would almost certainly spur the prince into trying to take some kind of action to save Merlin – for although he maintained that he didn't care about what happened to his servant, both physician and knight knew that Arthur had risked his life for the servant for less before, and would be insistent upon doing so again, despite his condition.

It was obvious to Leon that it took all of Gaius's resolve to refrain from telling Arthur in the hopes that he would go after Merlin once he was well (for the fear that he would try to go _before_  he was well), because Merlin was like a son to the old doctor. Leon felt bad for the old man, but was proud that he was making the right decision and keeping the prince's – not to mention Camelot's – best interests at heart. Leon himself would have liked to go after the raiders who had Merlin – because it had become quite apparent to Leon when they started addressing Merlin instead of Arthur that they, for some reason or another, thought that _Merlin_  was  _Arthur_ and had taken the serving boy instead. This was very unfortunate, for despite Gaius's solemn confidence that Merlin would be able to hold his own until some form of help arrived, Leon knew that the skinny servant, no matter how stubborn and resourceful he was, was no match for the likes of which he was now trapped. No matter how much Sir Leon wanted to go and help the servant, it was impossible as he had his duties here, and there was no way that he would be able to find and save Merlin on his own anyway.

At any rate, Leon had entered Arthur's chambers with a mind full of warnings from Gaius, and had fully intended to stick by them completely. However, one thing led to another, and after ten minutes or so of discussing each other's health and well-being, and another five of idle talk, Arthur asked Leon a question about the raiders' attack, and Leon had unwittingly revealed to the prince that he knew more about the events that had transpired than he was letting on. Previously, Arthur had assumed that since Leon had been knocked out before Arthur that he didn't know anything more about the situation than his superior did. Now, however, that Arthur realized that Leon knew about what had happened to Merlin, he hadn't let up questioning his knight for a second.

Leon had refused to talk about the boy, but he knew that it had to be pretty obvious in his face and eyes that all was not well with the servant. When Arthur threatened to get out of bed and go searching for answers himself if Leon didn't tell him what he knew, the flustered knight had been forced out of the room by an entity almost as frightening as the terrible raiders he had fought the day before: an irate Gaius with a vial of sleeping potion and a protective gleam in his eyes. He had waited outside until Gaius had managed to make Arthur drink the potion (and just  _how_  Gaius had managed to do this, Leon didn't know, because even a weakened and injured Arthur was a hell of a lot stronger than a healthy Gaius), and then the physician had told Leon gravely that it might be best if he didn't come back until tomorrow at least, when the prince might have more of his wits about him. Leon got the feeling that he had made things even worse for the patient and caretaker, and so he had slunk off to the training grounds, guilt crushing down on his armored shoulders as he thought about how many people he had failed in the past few days – Arthur, Gaius, Uther, and the person who weighed most heavily on his heart right now – Merlin.

The worst part was, Leon knew that if he  _had_  been awake for Merlin's actual capture, he wouldn't have said anything. Yes, he liked the boy, and he would do just about anything within his ability as a knight of Camelot to protect him from men like the raiders, but Arthur was the prince, and he was and always would be Leon's first priority. Leon was actually glad that he had been knocked out first, because he wouldn't have been able to bear the shame and the guilt at the bewildered look in the servant's eyes when he realized that Leon was going to stand by and do nothing, and let him be taken in the place of Arthur.

It was a horrible thing to think, and even though it had not come to that point for Leon, he still felt horrible about the path that he would have taken. He had to protect Arthur and Camelot at all cost, and he would have done so, but he also would have hated himself for the rest of his life. He wasn't so sure that he wasn't going to do that at this point, anyway. Leon resolved that if Merlin ever made it back, which, while highly unlikely, wasn't entirely impossible since Merlin _was_  one of the most resilient and stubborn men he'd ever met, despite his small stature and low ranking, he would ask for the servant's forgiveness, beg for it, even, if it came to it. Leon was a man of honor, and what he would have been prepared to do, while perhaps necessary for the good of the kingdom, was the furthest thing from honorable. Yet a part of him insisted that Merlin would have sacrificed himself in that way in a second for Arthur, and perhaps even had done so by keeping quiet and refusing to try to convince their captors of the truth. Leon wouldn't know for sure, until (or unless) he heard more of the story, because now he only had his own memories to go by.

And they were eating him up inside.

* * *

Merlin's chest heaved with exertion as he hefted the heavy metal rod for the fifth time since the raiders had begun their "entertainment" session. After Merlin had made his noble but idiotically stupid speech about judging a prince by his victories in battle and other such nonsense, he had expected to have been beaten to a pulp then and there for his impertinence. Instead, after his captors had made a tighter circle around him, they had announced that if that was how Prince Arthur felt, they should go ahead and get on with the entertainment that had been planned for today – a so-called tournament where the prince would have to fight each one of the ten Vikings present. It was an entirely unfair game, one which, even had Merlin been as great of a fighter as Arthur, would have meant many bruises and much pain, because even a great warrior cannot be expected to go up against ten men in a row, ten times bigger than he is, without becoming utterly exhausted and retaining a few blows. Merlin had been terrified, of course, because when it came to non-magical combat, he was positively pathetic compared just to Arthur, but against these giants? He was doomed!

The good thing was, he supposed, that they had not been willing to risk killing him because of their desire for the hefty ransom that they  _thought_  their captive would bring them, and they also were not willing to put a sword in the hands of their opponent in such a small space, so they had deemed that long, thick, ridiculously  _heavy_  metal rods would be the weapons of choice in this tourney. As it turned out, these rods seemed to weigh almost as much as Merlin himself did, and at first, the sorcerer could barely lift his at all.

He had closed his eyes briefly, under the guise of preparing himself mentally for battle, and had cast as many non-verbal spells as he could think of to aid him in this trial as he could in thirty seconds. One to make the rod lighter to his hands, another to put a subtle field of protection around him so that fewer hits would actually make contact with his body, and yet another to slightly increase his stamina in the fight. He could care less that he was cheating with magic, something that he would probably be against in just about any other situation, but right now all he could think about was survival and keeping up appearances, which in itself would contribute a lot to his survival in the long run. These weren't particularly powerful or potent spells in themselves, but together, they worked to slightly increase Merlin's chances of  _not_  getting immediately beaten to a puddle of wizard on the dirty wooden floor of the longboat's lower deck.

Thanks to his mystical precautions, Merlin had fought quite well against the first four opponents, although admittedly he had not performed  _nearly_  as well as Arthur would have. Still, he felt that he had impressed his burly opponents enough so that they  _did_  believe that he could be the true Prince Arthur. Even so, these brutes were entirely too strong, too determined to see him fail, and just too nasty for Merlin to keep up with, even with the aid of magic, for long.

By the fifth challenger, his arms felt like they were made up of that delectable jam that Arthur liked to eat on his bread in the mornings, his stomach was not only sick because of the motion of the ship, but was growling with hunger (he hadn't eaten anything since the day before, although he had been given a few sips of some horrible mead to drink between fights), and his head was swimming with exhaustion. When the first real hit from his opponent connected with his midsection, it came as a complete shock, not because he hadn't been expecting to get bruised during this torment, but because of how hard of a blow it was, and how  _much_  it hurt. It would have been bad anyway, but when dealt by a man with the strength that this dark-haired, hugely muscled Viking possessed, it felt like his entire body was caving in over the spot where he had been struck. By this point, his magical shield had deteriorated considerably, and his own weapon felt quite a bit heavier in his burning arms.

Despite himself, Merlin crashed to his knees, his lips gaping desperately for any intake of air, his chest heaving without breath. The pain was overwhelming. Hot tears pushed desperately at the back of his eyes, but he forced them back, and once he had maintained minimal control over his breathing, he stumbled to his feet again, but toppled over almost immediately, fatigued and seized with pain. The raider that he bumped into shoved him forward brutally, and he crashed into his opponent, who threw him to the ground with a look of disgust on his scarred, bearded face.

Merlin groped for his rod, but wasn't fast enough as the other man swung his weapon down again, this time at Merlin's chest. Merlin just managed to roll out of the way of the rod, but didn't miss it entirely. The cold, hard metal made ruthless contact with Merlin's left wrist, and he heard something crack right before the all-consuming pain hit. He let out a strangled cry but dove desperately for his only means of defense, hefting it weakly in his right hand even as a burning tear of agony made its escape past Merlin's heavily guarded barriers. The Viking swung again, and Merlin closed his eyes for a split second in order to covertly cast a spell, and was just able to block the man's blow from connecting with his ribs. Merlin shakily stood, bent over on himself due to the pain, his broken left wrist pulsing with pain and hanging limp at his side, but he didn't back down. Instead, he shut his eyes briefly as if trying to overcome the pain, and muttered the most powerful but least obvious spell that he could think of to give him the strength to finish this. " _Cael corff cryf ac arfau!_ _"_ he whispered, and it looked to all the spectators that he was just murmuring some form of explicative or perhaps even self-encouragement beneath his breath as he tried to get past the pain. He hadn't wanted to use any verbal spells if he had any other choice, but obviously, he didn't at this point, but none of the raiders seemed to have noticed or suspected anything.

Aided by his spell, sheer determination, and the most potent desperation the young warlock had ever experienced, Merlin lunged forward despite the biting pain, taking his adversary by surprise. Using the shock to his advantage, he dodged the wild swing of the Viking's rod and drove his own weapon into the man's muscled chest. Despite the layers of muscle that protected him, the man doubled with the force of the blow, and as soon as his unkempt head was within Merlin's reach, the warlock swung the rod with all his might, as well as the might from his spell, and crashed the metal into the man's head with a horrendous  _clang_ and far more strength than a one-handed blow should have dealt. The man crumpled, but the desperate Merlin was beyond reason, and he swung the pole again, and hit the man on the chest. Something snapped. Merlin raised it again, but wasn't able to go through with the blow as something heavy crashed into his skull (a fist?), and he fell to the ground, stunned in a hazy state between consciousness and sleep.

The last thing he heard before he fell into unconsciousness was the leader of the raiders cursing and saying, "Damn prince's stronger than he looks. Take'em below, and we'll finish this later."

Merlin slipped away thinking that he  _really_  did not like the boiling tone of the Viking, and he really didn't want to see what his captors had in mind for him later, especially now that he had genuinely made them angry.

Then everything was black, and blissful nothingness.


	6. The Storm

Merlin was getting tired of waking up after having been knocked out.

This time, his eyes opened to the same room that he had been in the last time this had happened. He was on the bed again, but this time he wasn't shackled. Every part of his body ached, and he closed his eyes again, trying to pretend that he was anywhere else but here.

"You really made them mad."

Merlin's eyes snapped open and he turned his head to face the direction of the voice. He hadn't realized that he wasn't alone when he had first woken up, but now he saw Kol, sitting a few feet away from Merlin's bed, a small grin on his face. He had had a deep purple bruise on one side of his face, and if Merlin himself hadn't felt like he had been trampled by a herd of wild horses, he might have winced in sympathy.

"Good," Merlin grunted. He moved to push himself up, but his wrist buckled beneath him and pain shot up his arm. The pain was so bad that his vision blacked out for a moment. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and waited for the worst to pass. When the shooting agony had dulled into a steady ache, Merlin squinted his eyes open and looked at the injured arm. He grimaced at the deep bruising and swelling that mottled the disfigured appendage. It was definitely broken. The sight of his wrist made Merlin ill, so he looked away and propped himself up with the arm that didn't look like it had been crushed. He gasped in pain as the new position aggravated the pain in his midsection. He remembered being hit with the metal rod by his opponent.

He took a deep, calming breath and looked at Kol, who looked impressed. "You surprised them," the boy said. "They didn't think you'd have it in you. You don't look like much."

Merlin glared at Kol but didn't have the energy to contradict him. "Thanks," the pretend-prince said sarcastically.

Kol shrugged. "Doesn't matter now, though. They know what you're capable of. You almost killed Alfarin. That's why they knocked you out."

"Didn't realize they cared so much about anyone, even one of their own," Merlin grumbled as he tried – and failed – to find a more comfortable position. Kol looked at the captive sympathetically before rising and gently helping Merlin to a more comfortable sitting position, leaning against the wall. "Thanks."

Kol nodded in acknowledgement of the thanks before sitting down again. "They're normally not. But you'd gone a bit savage, apparently. And Alfarin isn't just anyone. He's the brother of Onäm, our leader."

"Oh," Merlin said, not sure how to respond to that. Finally, he settled with asking, "Does this mean I'll get a bit more respect around here, since I've proven my skill as a warrior? Or am I doomed because I almost maimed the leader's brother?"

Kol's answer was not exactly reassuring. "Both. Just because you're somewhat respected as a warrior doesn't mean they won't hate everything about you. Trust me, the only reason you're still alive right now is because of the ransom they're seeking to get from your father, Prince Arthur." Merlin started. He had almost forgotten during the course of the conversation that he was supposed to be the prince. He'd have to keep his guard off if he wanted to keep this up and get out of this alive.

Merlin didn't answer Kol, but inside, he was bristling from the unfairness of the situation. He had been doing exactly what they wanted him to do – fighting. But when he had come close to hurting one of them, they hated him for it and planned to punish him. It was a stupid, vicious cycle. After a couple of tense moments, Merlin asked his companion begrudgingly, "What happened to your face?"

Kol's expression was surprised, and he lifted up a hand to his cheek briefly. He seemed shocked that the abused hostage would be interested in the slightest about what had happened to him. He shook his head. "Nothing. Just. . . I guess they weren't satisfied with what they did to you. So I got punished, too. Happens all the time. I'm used to it."

The bitter expression on the young man's face was enough to inform Merlin that what Kol had said was a complete lie. He dropped the subject though.

There was an awkward silence. Then –

"What are you doing here, Kol?"

Kol blinked. "I'm on 'guard duty,' but I have a feeling that they just stuck me in here with you because they want me out of their way, too."

Merlin couldn't help but smile slightly at the boy's ignorance. "No, I mean what are you doing  _here_? With them? You don't seem like the type of person that is destined to be a raider."

Kol rolled his eyes. "I know, I'm not exactly intimidating." He huffed. "This is what I have to do to support myself and my family. Where I'm from, the ground is too frozen for farming for most of the year. The only  _real_  profit is in raiding. I couldn't support my mum and sisters as a black or leather smith."

"That's noble, I suppose," Merlin said slowly, "but, and, um, no offense, but how exactly were you able to  _become_  a raider? You don't look like you're much of a pillager."

"I'm more of an apprentice to the Vikings on this ship."

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "Raiders have apprentices?"

"Rarely. And apprentice is a generous word. It's really more like target practice, slave, or whipping boy," Kol responded somewhat bitterly, but he quickly tried to cover up his true feelings. "But I am able to keep enough of the plunder to bring back to my family. And the only reason I was granted the apprenticeship in the first place is because one of the men is my uncle."

Merlin nodded. "That was . . . kind of him."

Kol's eyes were dark. "Yeah," he ground out.

Another silence, this one even more awkward than the first ensued.

"You could always leave," Merlin said. "Take your family and move away. Camelot would harbor you."

"Yes, I'm sure your father would be thrilled to house a raider's apprentice and his lowly family," Kol snorted.

"I'm just saying, there's got to be a better way than—"

"Well, there's not!" Kol snapped angrily. He stood up and the chair almost tipped backwards at the force of the movement. "I do what I have to do in order to protect those I love. I wouldn't expect a mighty prince to understand what it's like to be poor and dependent. So just. . . shut up." Kol sat back down, crossing his scrawny arms over his chest.

Merlin wanted to tell him that he  _did_  understand, but he couldn't without revealing his true identity. Finally, he decided on joking in order to diffuse a bit of the tension. "That was shaping up to be a rather dramatic exit," he observed. "If you had actually gone through with it, I'd have been impressed."

Kol snorted. "Yes, well, like I said, guard duty."

The door opened. Merlin's eyes flicked to the newcomer, grimacing when he saw that it was Onäm, the leader of the crew of raiders. "Ah, you're awake, your highness," the man said sarcastically, smirking. "Good."

Merlin swallowed, not liking the dark gleam in the man's eyes at all.

"Kol, go bother Alfric." Kol shot Merlin one last look before scampering out of the room to find Alfric.

The Viking stepped further into the room, towering over his captive. "That was impressive, I'll give you that," he said slowly, eying Merlin like he was a piece of dirt that he had found under his nail. "You almost killed my brother."

"So I heard."

"He'll be all right, though, unless I decide to kill'em for losing to a runt like you." He grinned – it was more of a sneer, really – and Merlin wasn't entirely sure if the man was serious or not.

"I am the prince of Camelot," Merlin said firmly. "I beat your man in a fair fight. I am no _runt_."

Onäm smirked. Then he changed subjects entirely, which surprised Merlin. "Are you hungry, Prince Arthur?"

Merlin thought about replying with a belligerent  _no_  just to spite his captor, but his stomach chose that moment to let out a pitiful growl, reminding the warlock how hungry he actually was. Onäm grinned, showing off his teeth and lack thereof. Merlin stuck his chin up defiantly but answered honestly. "Yes."

The raider gave a slight nod. "Let me tell you how this is going to work,  _your highness_." He spat the last two words like they were comprised of poison. Merlin raised his eyebrows but didn't reply. "It is a  _long_  journey back to our land, and because we are all looking forward to the hefty fortune your father's going to give us in return for you, we're not going to kill you."

"I'm sensing that there's a 'but' coming on," Merlin muttered sardonically, and his comment was instantly rewarded with a sharp backhand to the face. Merlin gasped, bringing his uninjured hand to his face, which felt like it had caved in completely. His teeth and jaw throbbed with pain, and blood seeped from his mouth and a new cut on his cheek. He had a feeling that the side of his face would be matching Kol's by the end of the day, once the bruise had a chance to settle in. It felt like Onäm had more sheer force in one hand than Merlin could muster in his whole body without the aid of magic.

"Just because your father is a king and you are a spoiled brat does not mean that you'll be treated as royalty here, prince. You will only speak when you are allowed to. You will do what we say, when we say, and how we say. If not, you won't eat. We'll just keep you healthy enough so that you'll be alive when we trade you for the money, but people can live through some pretty uncomfortable positions. So if you want to eat, you'll behave. Understood?"

Merlin didn't respond, but his stomach grumbled. He cursed it for being so transparent. Onäm was slightly amused. "It will be over a month before you see dry land again, prince. But don't be looking forward to a warm welcome when you reach shore, either. If you behave, and your father complies, you might see your precious Camelot by this time next year. If not, you'll end up at the bottom of the sea, or as a slave. I want you to think about what you have to look forward to if you and your father don't play fair."

Onäm rose to his feet. Merlin's heart was in his throat, and he wondered if he might be able to take out the man with magic and somehow manage to take control of the ship before things got any worse. He knew that it was folly, of course, because there was no way that he would be able to take down as many men as were on the boat, especially in his weakened state, even with his magic. And if he were somehow able to, he'd never be able to sail the ship or find his way back to land. He was pretty sure that nautical spells were completely out of his range of knowledge, but he vowed that if – no, when – he made it back to Camelot, he would teach himself how to magically direct a vessel, and how to divine his place at sea and how to navigate. If there were no spells for nautical navigation, he'd learn how to read a map and a compass. But he was never going to find himself in a situation like this again.

"I'll have Kol bring you dinner," the raider said, his tone condescending. "But it might be the last you get for a while. I really don't like your attitude, wee Arthur. I'm looking forward to changing that."

He left the room, slamming the door behind him. Merlin heard a lock click into place. His heart and stomach sick with worry, seasickness, and hunger, he lay back down on his cot. Five minutes later, Kol came back with a small cut of dry, crusty bread and some of the sourest mead that Merlin had ever tasted, and that left him feeling thirstier than before.

Merlin devoured it all. It tasted like dirt mixed with blood. He realized that he was tasting his own blood from when Onäm had hit him earlier. His stomach churning, wrist burning, and heart sinking, Merlin finished his "meal" feeling more starved than he had been before. He hoped that Arthur appreciated what his servant was going through for him. He hoped even more that the real prince had devised some kind of rescue attempt, although from past experiences with mixed-up kidnappings, he knew that Uther didn't care much about the fate of the person being held for ransom, as long as it was a servant and not his precious ward, or in this case, his son.

Merlin's predicament was looking to be grimmer by the second.

* * *

Two weeks passed in a blur of pain, hunger, bruises, and terrible food.

At least, Merlin  _thought_  that it had been two weeks. He couldn't be completely sure, because time had begun to blur together for him on this hellhole of a ship, and it felt like he had been a prisoner for two  _years_  instead of two weeks. He had never been so miserable, and the worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it, other than pretend to be a prat and survive the best that he could. His magic made life somewhat bearable, and without it, Merlin knew that he would have been found out or maybe even dead by now. As it was, his magic was what allowed him to have a hope of escape once he was on dry land again, and it gave him a slight peace of mind in knowing that he wasn't actually helpless: It just felt like he was.

After his conversation with Kol upon waking after the "melee" so many days ago, Merlin found that he felt a little bit of sympathy toward the boy, and after a particularly difficult day, he found that he quite enjoyed having someone who somewhat understood his situation to talk to, if only to get his mind off of his pain, hunger, and seasickness.

A lot of the time, Merlin was alone. Sometimes they shackled him to the bed, although there was no reason for them to do so, considering that they were on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and Merlin couldn't escape on his own, even with his secret weapon, magic, on his side. Other times they just locked the door to his "cabin." It didn't really matter to Merlin, because as long as he was left alone, he could magic his way out of the chains. Every few days, they would come for him. He was forced to fight for their amusement, and each time, he grew wearier and more desperate. If he injured any of them seriously, he would then be punished further (usually resulting in brand new bruises or food deprivation), even though he was doing exactly what they wanted. They were tough Vikings, and broken bones didn't bother them (and Merlin  _had_  managed to give a few of those), but Merlin came to realize that they put him in the position for their own sick amusement.

They didn't always feed him, but when they did, it was only once a day and was never anything other than that horrid bread and the odd, burning mead. Occasionally, he got a piece of cheese or a small bit of water, but for the most part, he was kept away from any of the other food that they claimed had to be rationed, although Merlin knew for a fact that they feasted like kings every evening.

It had been roughly fourteen days. And the journey was still not over. Merlin sat on his cot, unshackled today, but feeling more chained down than ever before. He had been left alone for almost twenty-four hours, and he hadn't eaten in longer. He had a flagon of the mead to drink when he was thirsty, but he was always thirsty.

Merlin  _hated_  being so helpless. He was sick, angry, injured, and he just wanted to get back to Camelot. He wanted to hug Gaius, see Gwen, and even clean Arthur's dirty laundry. Thinking about the prince always made Merlin feel a little bit better, even though it also added to his sadness. He knew that Arthur would be doing everything in his power to find and save him, and even though the chances were slim that Uther would allow any such rescue attempt, and the chances even slimmer that anyone would be able to track Merlin and his captors down on the open ocean, the idea that there was someone actively trying to bring him back was enough to give Merlin the strength he needed to press on.

The ship groaned and the world shifted as it crested a wave. Merlin's stomach didn't like this very much, and he lay back on his cot, closing his eyes, but this only made the sick feeling worse. Merlin groaned. He wished that there was something he could do to make his stomach stop lurching in time with the ship, but in his time alone, he could try every spell he could think of. Apparently, seasickness was impervious to magic. Merlin thought that he could deal with the beatings, and even the hunger, if he could just get rid of the sickness. It had gotten progressively worse over the past few hours.

He heard a key in the lock, and he groaned. He didn't want anything to do with his captors, and he was in such a foul mood today that he didn't even think that Kol's relatively friendly face would be even remotely helpful. Even so, he would have very much preferred Kol to the man that actually came through the door. It was Onäm, the leader of the Vikings. And he did not look happy.

"What do you want?" Merlin asked sourly. He'd gotten hit many times for his impertinence, and this time was no exception. He knew the blow was coming, though, so he was able to brace himself before the enormous man's meaty hand smashed into his chest. The pain crashed through him, and he heard something snap. He gasped for breath, crying out when simply inhaling caused him even greater pain. He was pretty sure he'd broken a rib.

Onäm smiled darkly, the expression on his ugly, brutal face feral. He smelled of sweat, spoiled meat, and sea spray. He was slightly damp, which only succeeded in worsening his stench. Merlin breathed shallowly through his mouth, slightly comforted and amused at the realization that the Viking's body odor was actually helping Merlin to breath in a way that was easy on his busted ribs. "There's a storm brewing," Onäm said, a wild fire in his eyes. A surge of dread pulsed through Merlin's body. Gods, no.

Onäm looked pleased, and Merlin took that as a testament to how wild and twisted his sea-faring captor really was. He had faced many storms at sea and probably enjoyed the rush that the brush with death gave him, like when Arthur competed in a tournament and enjoyed himself. Merlin had never understood it, especially now that he had been forced to participate in several "tournaments" himself during his time as a hostage on the ship.

"What does that… have to do… with me?" Merlin gasped out, his ribs protesting every time he took in a breath.

Onäm seemed to consider punching Merlin again, but he answered the question instead. "The lower decks usually flood during storms," he informed his prisoner, and the answer made Merlin feel like he'd been punched in the gut, anyway. "Can't have you drowning below deck when we're just a few weeks away from shore. You're coming above deck."

No, no, no, no, no. Merlin had heard of the terrible storms that occurred in the ocean, and he had been terrified of being caught in one since he had first woken up to discover that he was out in the open waters. He couldn't swim, and if he got swept overboard, he would drown, magic or not.

"I—" he started, but his stomach threatened to rebel as the ship went over a particularly large wave. Onäm lumbered forward, grabbed Merlin's upper left arm, enveloping several overlapping bruises that had been inflicted over an extended period of time. Merlin barely winced. The nausea in his stomach wasn't just from seasickness anymore. It was from pure terror. Onäm reached into a fold of his breeches and pulled out a length of rope, spinning Merlin around and tying his wrists behind his back. This time, the pain bit through his fear as Merlin's broken wrist (it had been set and bound by Kol a few days after the injury had occurred, but Kol was far from being a physician) protested the rope tightening mercilessly around it. His wrists bound, Merlin was shoved out of the door, up several sets of stairs, the floor lurching wildly underneath his wobbling legs all the way. He was shaking from fear and malnourishment as he was led up to the upper deck, where  _cold_  was added to the reasons why he was shivering. The sea air was cold, and rain was falling lightly, although Merlin knew that this was just the beginning. Each drop stung his skin. Even the dim light of the mostly obscured sun burned his eyes; this was the first time that he had been up, out in the open air, since he had involuntarily boarded the ship. He had been to higher decks, but never had he been on the highest.

For the first time since his capture, Merlin stood on deck and saw the endless ocean on all sides – water as far as the eye could see. His stomach turned in fear as he saw the quickly building waves, the grey, frothing waters, and the hastily darkening skies. Vikings were scurrying around the deck, raising or lowering sails (Merlin really had no idea what was going on, but there was a lot of rope pulling, cursing, and yelling).

"Kol!" Onäm yelled, and Merlin didn't know what made the raider think that his apprentice would hear him over the rapidly swelling wind and the noise of the other men. Just a few seconds later, though, the pasty-skinned stick of a "Viking" trotted up, his face even paler than usual.

"Yes, Sir?" the boy asked, casting a semi-sympathetic look at the bound and openly afraid "prince" beside him.

Onäm handed him some more rope. "Take care of our guest, and then secure yourself, boy. You know what to do."

"Yes, Sir."

His smaller, gentler hand replaced Onam's meaty and rough one on Merlin's arm, and Kol led Merlin across the deck to the mast. "Stand here," he instructed, pushing Merlin lightly so that his back was against the mast. Without another word, Kol quickly and efficiently bound Merlin to the mast from his neck to his knees. Merlin grunted in pain as his broken wrist was rubbed against the grainy wood of the mast. "Sorry. Should've untied your wrists first," Kol apologized when he realized his mistake. Merlin was in far too much pain and was experiencing too much fear and nausea to respond. He watched as Kol cut the rope off at Merlin's knees after checking to be sure that Merlin was bound securely. He then wrapped the rope around his own waist several times, tied it off, and then secured the end of the rope to the mast as well. "Smaller men like me have to be careful, or we'll be swept overboard," he said.

Merlin appreciated the thought, but he would much rather be below deck – not in the place where it flooded, of course, but maybe right below this deck – free and dry, than standing, tied to a mast, and forced to endure the full terror of the storm on deck with the rest of the crew.

As the rain pelted down harder, the wind picked up, and the waves rolled, Merlin couldn't stop the all-encompassing tremors that shook him from head to toe.  _Please_ , he thought desperately as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, much too closely for Merlin's liking, and charged the air with almost tangible electric power.  _I just want to go home._

The sky opened up, the rain poured in sheets, the wind howled vengefully, and the boat jerked wildly. Merlin closed his eyes, braced himself, and entered into hell.


	7. Life and Death (And Everything In-Between)

_"You know," said the raider, "it was a clever trick, that." Arthur had no idea what the man was talking about and he could feel his mind wandering with the pain in his head, arm, and side. "Dressing as a commoner as a means of keeping yourself safe and invisible. Too bad your own people are cowards, Prince Arthur. With the right incentive, they told me many things about their 'beloved' prince."_

_Arthur was very confused. He was pretty sure that he was wearing chain-mail and armor and not common clothing. He glanced hazily at his companions and saw that Leon's eyes were wide and that Merlin, uncharacteristically quiet because of the gag, looked as baffled as his master. Arthur found himself checking the servant over for injuries, even in his own bleary state, and it didn't look like Merlin had sustained more than a small cut on his shoulder. Arthur wondered how that had come about, considering Leon looked worse for the wear, and he himself was beaten like hell._

_Arthur's mind was going in and out, so he only heard fractured pieces of what was being said around him. "...for ransom ... if you father cooperates ... home ... someday ... best behave ... never said what condition ... sent home in ... now, just for fun-"_

_There was a loud smack and then a groan, and Arthur forced his eyes open to see that Leon had just been clobbered by the leader of the men, and he knew that Merlin would be next. Arthur took as deep of a breath as he could through the pain, knowing that he was about to be taken. He would have to try_ something _to escape; he wasn't going to be taken on their ship as a prisoner._

_Arthur heard Merlin grunt in surprise from beside him, and he looked in the serving boy's direction, expecting to see him sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. Instead, he was awake and fighting as he was pulled to his feet by a mess of the raiders. What were they doing with his servant? If they harmed a hair on his head, Arthur would -_

_Arthur never got to finish his mental threat. There was a blinding flash of pain, a rainbow of red, black, and white obscuring his vision, and then all went dark and silent._

"Merlin!" Arthur woke, sweating and shaking, his mind whirling unpleasantly in time with his gut as the dream - no, it was too real to be a dream; it was a memory,  _the_  memory - hit him with full force. Feeling sick, he saw that it was daylight and realized that he had slept in again. He had been doing that a lot lately, since the blow to the head, and no one had woken him since Gaius claimed that sleep would be his greatest healer now.

Arthur threw off his covers, grabbed the first tunic and pair of breeches that he saw, pulled on his boots, and barreled out of the door.

He was going to see Gaius, and this time, he  _was_  going to get the truth.

* * *

About two weeks had passed since the raiders' attack when a heavy-hearted Gaius opened his chamber door to find Arthur, eyes flashing, on the other side. "Sire," Gaius said, surprised. Arthur had only just been able to get out of bed a few days ago, so severe were his injuries, and he hadn't yet remembered or discovered what had happened to Merlin - but not for lack of trying. Now, though, Gaius nearly stepped back at the fire in Arthur's eyes.

"Gaius," Arthur said, his eyes more focused than they had been since the attack. "Where. Is. Merlin?"

Gaius twiddled his thumbs nervously. He knew that he'd done the right thing in not telling Arthur that Merlin had been taken, no matter how much it was eating him up inside, because he had known that Arthur would have tried to set out to save his servant, despite his own fragile condition. Gaius loved Merlin like a son, yes, but he knew it would have been a fool's errand to allow the prince to go after him in his state. Instead of just losing Merlin, he would lose Arthur as well, Uther would lose his heir, and Camelot would lose its future king. Besides, Merlin wasn't going to be gone forever. He certainly wasn't helpless, like everyone else thought, and just in case the young warlock was not able to help himself to the extent that Gaius fervently hoped that he could (and after two weeks with no word, Gaius was becoming very anxious that Merlin was in over his head), the old physician had other plans up his sleeves: covert plans that had already been set into motion, with the help of a worried Guinevere and a guilty Sir Leon.

"Sire," Gaius said again, "I've told you, he is fine. He was homesick, so I sent him home to Ealdor for a while so that he could see his mother." He hadn't liked lying to the prince, but he'd been forced to one day, earlier in the week, when Arthur had ordered Gaius, in no uncertain terms, to tell him where Merlin was, or... or... else. (The prince was still rather addled by the colossal hit to the head at that point, so his threats were not as creative, nor as _threatening_ as they usually were. He'd also accepted the lie with relative ease, which Gaius had been very grateful for, but now it looked as if Arthur's concussion had cleared up to the point that he now realized that what he had been told was a lie.)

Arthur nearly growled his next words. "No,  _Gaius_. I know that you lied to me. I know Merlin isn't home, because I  _know_  something's happened to him. Something bad. And if I hadn't been so dazed, I would've realized that sooner. No one talks about him; I have to force them to. Gwen's been on the verge of tears, and I know she can't  _still_  be upset about my injuries; I'm nearly fully recovered. You look, sound, and act like your heart has been ripped out, and there's guilt in your eyes. So tell me, Gaius, where is Merlin?"

Gaius knew there was no way out of this, but for some unknown reason, he decided to make one more last-ditch effort to distract the prince. "Merlin is simply-"

"No, Gaius," said Arthur. "He's not 'simply' anything. I... I remembered, Gaius. Some things, at least. And I know that Merlin's not okay." Gaius sighed, defeated, but also relieved that he did not have to hide this from Arthur any longer. The effort was exhausting him.

"What do you remember, Arthur?" Gaius asked, making sure that Arthur wasn't just making up the return of his memory to try and trick some information out of him. He wasn't sure if the prince would lie about such a thing, but with Merlin's safety on the line, Gaius just wasn't sure. After all, the two of them were friends - best friends, in facts - even if neither of them would admit it outright.

"I'll tell you," Arthur said, a faraway look in his eyes, "but first, Gaius, just tell me this: Is Merlin alive? I don't remember anything past the raiders pulling him away. Did they kill him?"

Arthur let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding until now when Gaius answered, "No, Arthur. From what Sir Leon has told me, they did not kill him, and as far as we all know, he lives."

"Oh," said Arthur, and Gaius could see that his hands were trembling slightly, but from fatigue, relief, or anxiety, he wasn't sure. He didn't even think the prince knew that he was shaking, and the physician wisely didn't point it out. "That's good." He frowned. "As far as you know? The raiders took him, then? Why? What could they possibly have wanted from Merlin? I thought they wanted  _me._ "

Gaius looked at Arthur sadly. "They did," he said. "And, if Merlin has been smart enough to keep up the pretense, they still do."

* * *

Arthur was horrified. "They thought that  _Merlin_ was  _me_? What on  _earth_ would make them think that?" It was ludicrous, but the explanation did bring to light some of the odd things that he had remembered in his dream, like why the raider had been saying something about the prince dressed as a commoner while Arthur was in full armor and chain-mail.

Gaius shrugged his shoulders, which seemed even more slumped than usual. "I know not, Sire, but they truly believed that he was the prince and that you were one of his knights, and they took him with them."

"They're ransoming him?" Arthur said it as a question, but they knew it was the truth.

"So it would seem," said Gaius. "We received the ransom demand yesterday, along with this." With slightly shaking hands, Gaius reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a rather long, dark lock of hair bundled crudely together with a thin strap of leather. Arthur took the hair from Gaius, turning it over in his fingers. It was longer than Merlin's hair had ever been, but he had no doubt that it was his servant's. Arthur's lips pressed tightly together, and he thrust the lock of hair back into Gaius's hands.

"It could have been worse," Arthur said, trying to remind himself of the fact as much as he was reminding Gaius. "It could have been  _much_  worse." He didn't speak it aloud, but he knew that, especially with the cruel violence of the raiders, that it could have just as easily been a finger along with the ransom.

"I know," said Gaius heavily, "but still..."

"I know," Arthur echoed the physician. "It's not right."

There was a lull of anxious silence before Gaius cleared his throat. "Could you tell me what you remembered, Arthur?"

Arthur did, and it seemed that his recollection of the events leading up to Merlin's capture meshed seamlessly with what Gaius had heard from Leon. "What did this demand say?" Arthur asked. "How long do we have?"

"Arthur," Gaius said quickly, "You  _do_  know that your father has no intention of rescuing Merlin? In his eyes, this mistake was a blessing in disguise, and while he says that 'the boy's fate is regrettable,' he does not plan on sending knights, let alone paying the ransom." Gaius's eyes were hard, and Arthur felt a stab of annoyance toward his father. This was shaping up to be  _much_  too similar to when Guinevere, thought to be Morgana, had been captured by Hengist and his pigs, maybe even worse, because at least Guinevere hadn't had an entire  _ocean_  separating her from rescue.

"Of course he's not," Arthur said briskly, trying to smother the rising anger at his father's callousness. "But when has that ever stopped me?"

"I understand, Arthur, but-"

"And Gaius, how could you not tell me about this? I thought that Merlin's life would be important that you-"

Gaius cut him off, his wrinkled face almost crumpling. "Do you think that I  _wanted_  this, Sire?" the old man asked, sounding thoroughly defeated. "Merlin is a son to me, and I have no way of knowing if he is all right. I could not tell you, because I knew what you would do - or  _try_ to do, anyway - and it would have gotten you killed, especially in your weakened state. I would have been doing you, the kingdom, and even  _Merlin_  a disservice had I told you the truth and let you go after him after such a traumatic head injury!"

Arthur could see the sense in Gaius's argument, but concern for his trouble-attracting manservant overrode his common sense and he rebutted, "But to turn a blind eye, Gaius -"

"Do you think that is what I have done?" Gaius said, and Arthur suddenly felt very bad for making the physician so distraught. "Turned a blind eye to Merlin's suffering?"

"Well," Arthur said in the most placating tone that he could muster at the moment, with worry nagging at him, and the beginning of another headache assaulting him, "I mean to say that if my father refuses to do anything, and  _I_  haven't been able to lead some knights out -"

"Arthur, Sir Leon and Guinevere have been helping me track down some old friends of Merlin's... people who might be able to help him, and who would drop everything to come to his aid."

"Oh," said Arthur, suitably chastised. "I'm... sorry that I accused you of not taking action on Merlin's behalf. But you should have told me."

"It was against my better judgment as a physician and a friend, Arthur," Gaius stated bluntly. "And I am sure that Lancelot and Gwaine will be able to bring Merlin home safely."

"Lancelot and Gwaine?" Arthur repeated, shaking his head. "I should have known." He paused. "Have they been found yet?"

"Leon finally tracked Gwaine to a tavern about two miles from the edge of Camelot, in Cenred's kingdom four days ago. Gwaine has already set out; he will not wait for Lancelot, but Leon and Guinevere are still searching."

Despite his relief that  _someone_  was going to Merlin's rescue, Arthur was alarmed. "Cenred's kingdom? But surely Leon knows that to cross the border is an act of war?"

"Indeed, Sire. But Camelot has eyes and ears throughout many kingdoms. He never had to cross into Cenred's kingdom physically. He talked to the right people, sent messages. That is why it has taken so long to find even Gwaine - it could have been much longer. Guinevere has been helping to write and send the messages when she is not with Morgana. It also seems that she has heard from Lancelot a few times since the incident with Hengist - nothing but polite greetings, meant for all of us -" Gaius quickly clarified, seeing the look on Arthur's face, "- and she thinks that she may be able to find him through these, and from where they were sent. She hasn't actually  _replied_  to any of them as of yet, but maybe she can find Lancelot through them."

Arthur slightly relaxed when he heard that Gwen hadn't responded to any of Lancelot's notes, cordial as they might be, and he said, "Well, I'm leaving tonight, Gaius, and I'm going to bring Merlin back as soon as I can."

"What will you tell the king?" Gaius asked, knowing that he wasn't going to change Arthur's mind, and not actually wanting to, since he knew that Arthur, like Gwaine and Lancelot, would go to any lengths to save Merlin from the raiders.

"I don't know," said Arthur. For the first time, he grinned at Gaius, but it was very strained. "I'm sure you'll think of something!"

* * *

"Stir... crazy?" Uther said, raising an eyebrow at his court physician. "I have never heard these words before. Is it serious?"

"Not as such, Sire, but it  _is_ rather infuriating after having been confined to one's room and bed for long periods of time. With Arthur's injury finally healed, I highly recommend that he goes out on a good, long hunt with a few of his knights in order to get some fresh air and strength back. He is quite pale, and weaker than usual, and it will do him a world of good to get out of the castle for a while, provided that you will allow him to do so."

Uther looked away for a moment, thinking. "He  _has_  been rather pale since the attack."

"It will help him tremendously to be in nature."

"So you have said." Uther studied the older man carefully. "And this has nothing to do with his missing servant, does it, Gaius? Because I told you yesterday, Gaius, that I have not the resources nor the men to send anyone after a mere servant. I know he means something to you. I'm sorry, but I cannot make exceptions."

"No, Sire," Gaius lied evenly. "As a seasoned physician, I have seen many cases of what we loosely call being 'stir crazy,' and if one does not come out of confinement, the side effects can be very unpleasant. He  _needs_  this, Sire." And it was true - Arthur  _did_  need to get out, and he  _was_  going a bit stir-crazy after nearly two weeks in bed, and, most importantly, he  _needed_  to find his servant. Gaius didn't like lying to the king, but for Merlin's sake, he would in a heartbeat - after all, he lied to the king about Merlin's magic daily.

Uther considered this, and then dipped his head. "I trust you know more about this than I do, Gaius. Thank you for taking such good care of my son." Gaius didn't dare breath a sigh of relief as the king turned away, effectively dismissing him.

"Oh," said Uther, causing Gaius to turn back, fear niggling at his mind. "And tell Arthur that I am going to send Sirs Cedric and Anthony with his hunting party," the king added. "Just to make sure that Arthur isn't up to anything."

Gaius's heart dropped as he thought of the two knights that were sons of some of Uther's oldest friends. They were steadfastly loyal to the king, and only the king, and while the knights answered to Arthur in general, these two only took a direct order if it came from the king. They came in very useful when there might be a conflict of interest with Arthur and some of  _his_  most loyal knights. Not that these knights wouldn't obey the king, but men like Leon had pledged their service to  _Arthur_ , and they were more likely to go along with Arthur if he were planning some sort of secret rescue mission. Cedric and Anthony, however, would not. The physician couldn't say anything to contradict the idea without making Uther more suspicious, so he merely said, "Of course, Sire," and left the throne room, deeply troubled.

With Cedric and Anthony in the picture, this was going to be more difficult than he thought. Arthur was  _not_  going to be pleased when he found out.

* * *

Merlin's broken wrist throbbed painfully, jammed between his back and the mast he was tied to, and he could barely breathe because of the burning pain in his chest - he was almost positive that Onäm broke one of his ribs when he hit him earlier - but he didn't care. It didn't matter that his head hurt and his stomach growled, it didn't matter that he was more seasick than he had ever been on this stupid ship, it didn't even matter that he was covered in painful bruises and cuts from head to toe, and that each one of them stung painfully with each drop of rain that touched his skin. None of it mattered, because he was currently in a place so far from reality, so far from everything that he knew and understood, that even if he could fully comprehend the pain his battered and starved body was going through, he probably wouldn't even notice it.

He couldn't hear anything over the roar of the hash, stinging rain hitting the roiling, crashing waves. Thunder growled almost constantly through the sky, followed by lightning so bright that it nearly blinded him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise from the raw power of the lightning, and he couldn't help but remember what had happened to Nimueh on the Isle of the Blessed. He remembered his calling down the lightning, and remembered her screaming, burning, and then she was nothing but ashes. He could feel the same fate coming for him, and as much as he tried to keep his eyes away from the terrifying sight of the black midday sky being shattered by hot tendrils of electricity, he found that every time thunder roared and lightning struck, he was watching it, just waiting for it to make its way to him.

Only later did it occur to him that he probably could have used his magic then to try and calm the storm, or shield himself, or something, since the rest of the men (minus Kol, who was tied to the post, albeit much more comfortably, along with Merlin because of his size) were running about on deck, yelling things and pulling ropes and generally having a grand time of their certain death, and not paying a speck of attention to their captive at the mast. But his fear was so acute that even the most natural thing, the most instinctual thing, didn't occur to him. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't -  _  
_

A massive wave towered over the ship, and Merlin's heart nearly stopped. A wave, the biggest he'd seen yet, a sheer wall of frothing, deadly water, rose angrily from the sea and towered over the ship. Merlin couldn't hear anything but the ear-splitting rumble of the wave as it crested, looming over the ship, that had once seemed so large to Merlin, and was now so very, very tiny.

Merlin's mouth opened - he might have been screaming; he couldn't tell - and he just remembered to close it as the water-wall descended on the ship. Then everything was water, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he was being pulled and tossed and pushed within his bonds, he was going to die, he was going to drown... Something snapped inside of him, and his magic lashed out on its own, responding to his absolute panic, and the boat rose up out of the wave, the vessel shooting down the massive, roiling hill of water. The storm began to wane. The lightning stopped crackling. The rain slowed to a trickle, and all of the Vikings and Kol stared dumbly at the sky, taken aback by the sudden change of weather.

Merlin didn't notice, however. The sudden surge of magic coupled with his fear, lack of oxygen, and already deteriorating condition, had taken its toll on him, and he was slumped in his ropes against the mast, unconscious.


	8. Of Rescue Plans and Rabbits (And an Awful Lot of Coughing)

"This is ridiculous," said Arthur from where he sat next to Leon, who had graciously agreed to accompany him on the "hunting trip," knowing full-well that it was just an excuse to get out of the castle and search for Merlin. Leon was his most trusted knight, and while the man was loyal to the king, Arthur knew that in matters like this, Leon could be trusted beyond no other, because he remained loyal, first and foremost, to Arthur. It also helped, Arthur thought, that the knight felt no small amount of guilt over what had happened to Merlin. He hadn't said anything about it, but Arthur was easily able to see it on his worried face, in his troubled gaze.

He'd hoped that bringing Leon along might help him find some way out of the scrutiny of Cedric and Anthony, his father's men, but they had been wandering aimlessly in the woods for nearly five hours now and neither one had managed to come up with a plausible plan to get away from the men without arousing suspicion and causing the king to send out  _more_  men to stop them from going after Merlin.

They were sitting by the campfire they had just built, and Leon was cooking one of the large hares they'd caught over the flames. This hadn't started out as an actual hunting trip, but until they came up with a plan, they had to keep up the pretense, and anyway, they had to eat. Arthur felt a little bit annoyed with himself for sitting idly while Merlin was stranded with bloodthirsty Vikings in the middle of the ocean. A pang of hopelessness overtook him, not for the first time since learning the truth.

Why on earth should he believe that Merlin was even alive? Sure, they'd sent the hair, but it's just as easy to cut the hair of a dead man as a live one. They could have very well figured out the truth, that Merlin wasn't the prince (and really, how long was Merlin going to be able to convince them, anyway?), killed him, and then cut off a lock of his hair maybe hoping that they'd get some kind of money anyway.

A nasty little voice in the back of Arthur's mind said that his father was right, that he should go back, that there was no point in trying to get Merlin back. Arthur promptly squashed the idea, knowing that he wasn't going to rest until he had at least  _tried_  to get Merlin back. Even if he were setting himself up for failure, it didn't matter. Because Merlin was a captive of brutal seamen, and it was Arthur's fault, because somehow, someway, they had thought Merlin was _him_.

Leon didn't answer Arthur right away, only glancing up subtly to see the two burly guards sitting a short distance from the fire, talking quietly between themselves, looking bored but on alert. He then turned back to Arthur and said almost hesitantly, "Arthur, you should go back. I know that Merlin is something of a friend to you, and that you want to find him, but if you but order me to go in your stead, I will embark upon this quest in a heartbeat. I may not know the boy like you do, but I can't help but feel partially responsible for his fate. And it will take a miracle for you to slip away from your father's men. I can get away much easier, and I am not as valuable to Camelot as you are."

Arthur was shaking his head in protest before Leon had gotten through his first sentence, but the knight plowed on anyway, even knowing that he was beaten before he had begun. "No," Arthur said firmly when Leon had fallen silent. "I have to  _try_. We'll find a way to get away from Anthony and Cedric, and then we'll go to the harbor town, find a ship to take us across the sea and to the frozen lands that lie beyond. We'll find Merlin, he'll be alive and as stupid as ever, and we'll bring him back, and I'll deal with the consequences of my actions upon my return." He glared stonily in the direction of his "babysitters." "We just have to find a way to get away from those two."

* * *

"So, you've been to Camelot before, too, eh? And you got arrested and banished as well? I've come to realize that's a common theme in the city, grand as it's supposed to be. What did you say you got arrested for again?"

Lancelot gritted his teeth and plowed forward through the foliage, taking care of where he stepped on the root-laden, uneven terrain. "I didn't," he replied shortly, trying to ignore the chattering man following right behind him, not even bothering to ask him to be quiet anymore.

"No, you did," the brown-haired man countered. "I distinctly remember you saying something about being arrested and banished and not able to return to Camelot."

"I  _meant_ ," Lancelot sighed, "I didn't say  _why_  I was arrested. And quite frankly, I don't want to speak of it with someone I just met."

"But we have a mutual friend, and a bloody good one at that! We found each other against all odds to unite on this quest! We defied all the obstacles that would have prevented our joining forces, tracked one another down, and-"

Lancelot rolled his eyes as he pulled back a small, bendy branch so he could duck under it and resisted the growing urge to let it snap back into the other man's face, remembering that he was trying to earn his right to be a knight, and smacking someone, no matter how irritating, in the face with a tree branch, didn't exactly meet the noble criteria for knighthood. "No, I followed the advice in Guinevere's letter, found the nearest tavern, and found you there, drunk and smelling like the back end of a horse."

Gwaine's mouth fell open. "I object to that!" he protested. "I went to the closest tavern to Camelot's borders to wait for the person Gaius described in  _his_  letters to find me so that we could embark upon this quest together. You're actually lucky I waited for you, because when Merlin's life is at stake, I'm not one to wait around. I was going to give you one more day, and then I was going to start after him alone. I only gave you the benefit of the doubt because Gaius said that you're extremely brave, loyal, a great ally to have, extremely stiff-necked, but I suppose that can't be helped-"

"Gaius did not say that," Lancelot protested. "And quite frankly, I'm surprised Guinevere didn't tell me how… talkative you are."

He glanced back briefly to see the long-haired man grinning widely. "I'll take that as a compliment, Prance-a-lot."

"It's Lancelot," Lancelot ground out.

He heard a short intake of breath behind him and rolled his eyes, realizing that Gwaine had opened his mouth and taken a breath in preparation to start speaking again, but then another sound caught his attention and he raised a hand to silence the man, and when that didn't work and Gwaine started prattling on anyway, he hissed, "Shhhh!"

Gwaine finally got the message and fell silent, coming up quietly to stand beside Lancelot, and to the dark-haired man's surprise, Gwaine's expression was suddenly serious and focused, eyes narrowed slightly and hand hovering over the knife sheath on his belt. For a moment, he looked like an actual warrior, and Lancelot wondered if Gwen had been right, and that Gwaine would be a great man to have his back in a fight. But then the rustle in the bushes ahead came to its crescendo and the perpetrator loped out of the brush, revealing a large, brown rabbit with floppy ears and a twitching nose, and Gwaine burst out laughing, scaring the bunny off and generally acting like a very large child.

"I love rabbits," Gwaine announced loudly, grinning from ear to ear. "I had a rabbit once. I named him Phillip."

Lancelot didn't respond, only stalked forward, hoping that they could get into Camelot and to the Gedref region without being caught by bandits or Uther's men. And hoping that he would somehow find the patience to deal with Gwaine long enough to rescue Merlin. He was actually more nervous about that last one than anything.

* * *

When he woke up, he was  _freezing_. Also, his whole body ached, his face felt unnaturally heated and his throat hurt, and his hearing seemed to be a bit muffled – but that didn't stop the sound of harsh, painful-sounding coughing from grating at his nervous system and making his throbbing head hurt all the more. Not to mention, his chest was heavy, felt like it was on fire, and that his body kept jerking, oddly enough, it was jerking in time with the coughing that was starting to drive him mad, and... oh. Right.

As his mind slowly began to clear, and his brain finally managed to catch up somewhat with his nerve endings, he was able to put two and two together and realize that it was him who was coughing. He wondered blearily if he were ill, and then decided that as he felt like death warmed over, or maybe death  _chilled_  over; it was so  _cold_ , and concluded that he was, most definitely, sick.

He didn't open his eyes, content to lie there and wallow in his misery a while longer, knowing that it was not going to be fun trying to drag his woozy self up out of bed and down the three stairs to Gaius, who would hopefully be able to whip up a remedy of some sort to battle the contagion that had decided to make its residence in his lungs. Merlin found that he didn't quite care how bad it tasted (as Gaius's potions always tasted like they were closer to the _poison_  side of the spectrum than  _potion_ , and often Merlin had wondered if he'd be better off with the illness or injury than with having to down the so-called "remedy" Gaius would try to shove down his throat), as long as it would get the weight off of his chest and make his head stop pounding and make the bloody cold go away...

A bolt of agonizing pain through his wrist and up his arm cut through his sluggish musings and he gave a soft groan, unable to hold it back at the sharp, stabbing pain that had seemed to come out of nowhere. Where had  _that_  come from, and since when did having a fever come with symptoms of arm pains?

No, something was wrong here, but his body was so weak, his mind was so slow, that he was having difficulty simply figuring out how to move his body again, never mind what had happened to get him to this state.

It was then that he felt something cold and metallic touch his bottom lip. He flinched instinctively, but quickly realized that it was the rim of a cup as warm but oh-so-welcome water began to slowly trickle into his mouth.

"Are you waking up?" a voice rasped quietly from above him, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar but that Merlin found he couldn't place right away. It had a strange accent and definitely did not belong to Gaius; even without the odd lilt to it, it was much too young to be the court physician's voice. As Merlin tried to will his eyelids to stop being so stubborn and just open already, the voice continued, growing quieter, almost as if whoever it belonged to had gradually stopped addressing Merlin and was more or less rambling to himself now. " _Please_  be waking up," the stranger mumbled. "They'll kill me if you don't wake up..."

Merlin finally managed to pry his heavy, aching eyelids open (He hadn't even been aware that eyelids could actually hurt until now!) and winced in the dim candlelight that immediately assaulted his vision. He blinked several times, everything blurring together and making him feel quite nauseated, before his vision cleared up a bit and he was able to make out a face leaning slightly over him.

He stared up at the young man watching him, and the man stared back at him, and then, after a few awkward moments of this, the reason why he recognized this boy came back to him, along with a lot of other  _very_  unpleasant memories, crashed back to the surface and he took in a gasping, wheezing breath.

"Kol?" he said, his voice gritty and garbled, sounding like he'd just been gargling spearheads. He coughed heavily, pain wracking through his body with every movement.

Once he was able to catch his breath again, he lay back, exhausted, feeling as if he'd just been run over by a herd of Questing Beasts. (Did Questing Beasts travel in herds? Packs? Clans? Or were they lone wanderers? Merlin wasn't sure, and he decided that he might be a bit more feverish than he'd originally thought, because it was _really_  hard to maintain a single, coherent line of thought, his mind rambling all over the place, making it really difficult to focus on anything for more than a few moments.)

"Yeah," Kol's voice, sounding rather strained itself, answered. "It's me."

An uncontrollable wave of panic assaulted Merlin as terrible memories of the storm, of being tied to the pole, of the wind and the rain and the raging sea... Oh, gods... What had happened? What had he done? He remembered being more afraid than he could ever remember, and then the power building up inside of him... If he'd done magic, if they realized who he was (or rather, who he _wasn't_ )... Well, he'd probably be dead, which he wasn't, so hopefully that meant that his facade hadn't been discovered, and that they'd figured the sudden stopping of the storm was a fluke of nature.

"What... what happened?" Merlin asked, trying to push himself up with the wrist that wasn't broken and laced with pain. He didn't get far, though, because his ribs, which had already been sore because of all the abuse he'd taken, were positively  _screaming_ , which more than likely had something to do with the fact that he'd been coughing like mad since he'd woken up. After settling back down onto the hard surface beneath him with a barely-audible whimper, he went on to ask, "Where are we?"

Kol gave a tiny cough himself, and for the first time, Merlin noticed that the young Viking's eyes were puffy and rimmed with red, and his nose was pink, his cheeks flushed. He didn't look like he was feeling too well, either. "Erm, well, we're back in your cabin. And, well... no one's really sure what happened, but the storm left just as quickly as it came on, if not quicker," Kol answered in a hushed tone. "By that time, you'd passed out." He glowered at his hands, which seemed to be shaking slightly. "I knew it wasn't a good idea to tie you to the mast. The men think there's less of a chance of drowning if you're not below deck where it has been known to flood some during storms, but no matter how many times I wind up with illness because they've forced me to stay out in the rain, they never learn." He shrugged his skinny shoulders slightly. "Even after I almost died last year, they insist on keeping 'the runt' bound in place on deck with the rest of them. Guess you fit into that category too."

Merlin listened to the strained speech without responding.

"Are... are you all right, sire?"

Merlin stared at the wooden beams of the cabin's ceiling overhead, too exhausted and in pain to move. He also had forgotten for a moment that the "sire" Kol was addressing was himself, but after a moment of silence, he realized his mistake and answered softly, "If they're not more careful, they'll lose their leverage to the plague."

Kol laughed shortly, though he sounded anything but amused. "Yeah, and if I fail to nurse you back to health, they're sure to kill me, too."

Merlin frowned. "I don't understand why you stay with them. You're not like them."

"Aren't I?" Kol asked grimly. "No, I suppose not, but it doesn't matter. This life is all I know, and like I've told you before, it's really none of your business anyway, and I don't feel like talking about it."

Merlin fell quiet for a couple of seconds before abruptly changing the subject as Kol coughed again. "Are you okay, Kol?"

Kol shrugged. "I get sick every time there's a storm, I'm afraid. I'm used to it. I'm just afraid that you're not, and, well, they kind of need you alive or this will all be for naught." Merlin didn't answer. Kol started to speak again, this time more hesitantly. "Though I'm beginning to suspect that it might all be for naught, anyway."

Merlin squinted his eyes in confusion, trying to ignore the building pain and pressure behind them and in his head, and the ever-growing tickle in the back of his throat. "What," he rasped, cleared his throat and miraculously fending off another massive coughing fit, "What are you talking about?"

Kol's voice was barely a whisper as he leaned in, his rattling breaths right in Merlin's ear. "You're not really Prince Arthur at all, are you?"

Merlin sucked in a deep breath, taken completely by surprise, and his lungs apparently couldn't handle it. He started coughing then, his whole body trembling, unable to breathe, his heart hammering wildly against his broken ribs. He felt like he was going to fly apart, both physically and emotionally.

Kol knew? How the hell could he know? And more importantly, if he knew, then why was he currently helping Merlin turn over slightly, gently patting his back and helping stir up some of the mucus lodged in Merlin's chest to ease his hacking?

Finally, Merlin was eased back onto the hard cot, breathing shallow, pained breaths, shaking like a leaf. His stomach rolled uncomfortably, well aware that they had just glided over a wave, as if desperate to let him know that along with all his other problems, he was still seasick as well. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was just some kind of extended nightmare, that he'd be woken up by the prat any moment now, demanding to know why he'd let him sleep through another council meeting and where his breeches and socks were and why his armor had a smudge on it and...

And he was drifting again, his train of thought moving elusively just out of his mind's grasp as he tried to get another sane hold on reality, for no matter how much he might wish it, this was all to real, and the only dream was that he'd somehow make it back to Camelot alive – and what a very far-off dream it was, too.

He opened his eyes again, his chest still heaving and jerking slightly with the effort of breathing after the attack, and eyed Kol suspiciously, even as the man watched him anxiously.

"What makes—" he coughed slightly but managed to regain his composure and breath before it got out of hand again, "—makes you think th-that?"

"You were mumbling in your sleep," Kol answered.

"L-lots of people do that," Merlin replied. "Even p-princes."

"You kept saying, 'Arthur.' Like you were worried about him."

"C-course I'm worried about me, look what's happened to me!"

"No, you were talking  _to_  him. And you said something about being his servant 'til the day you die." He frowned. "Or that you were soon to be serving him a fresh apple pie. You were mumbling. But either way, your reaction just now confirmed it. You're not Arthur."

Kol was much smarter than Merlin had given him credit for, and about ten times more intelligent than his brawny superiors. Merlin licked his dry lips nervously, knowing he was caught. At least Kol didn't know about the magic.

"So... so why am I s-still alive?"

"Because," Kol whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially, as if about to divulge a juicy secret, "I think it's brilliant that they're so thick. And I like you, Arthur, or whoever you are. Besides, if they find out they've got the wrong man, punishing you won't be enough. They're bound to throw me into the sea, too. I don't think either of us fancies a swim in our states."

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, and quickly saw in Kol's sincere eyes that he was telling the truth. He let out a short, soft laugh. "What are you going to do, then?"

"Umm... other than keep your secret, not sure. I'm still working it out in my head." He paused, staring at Merlin curiously. "But if you're not the prince, can you tell me your true name?"

"Merlin," he said. "I'm Merlin."

"Nice to meet you, Merlin," said Kol.

Merlin didn't answer, because he was too busy succumbing to another painful, rib-rattling, head-splitting coughing spurt that was worse than the last two fits combined.

As Kol once again helped him roll over into a better position to breathe, however, he realized that despite being badly injured and as sick as a dog, he was actually a bit more hopeful than he had been in weeks.

He hadn't heard anyone call him by his name since he entered into this watery hell, and even if Kol turned out to be lying, or if somehow everything turned against them, which he knew was just as possible, just hearing a kind voice call him by name was enough to sustain his spirits past the debilitating hopelessness for just a little while longer.

 


	9. Familiar Faces Fighting in the Forest

 Gwaine and Lancelot had been traveling at a relatively fast pace through the forest in a rather awkward, unfortunately one-sided silence for several hours now, Gwaine doing a more than adequate job of keeping up a steady stream of conversation despite the fact that he was, in fact, the only one talking. Oh, Lancelot would give an occasional, non-committal grunt or shrug, but it could hardly be called good conversation, or conversation at all, really.

Gwaine didn't mind the man, really, though he did seem to be really uptight with little to no sense of humor (at least according to what little Gwaine had seen of him so far), but according to the communications he had received from Gaius and Leon, he had been a damn good friend to Merlin, and that was enough for Gwaine.

That didn't mean that he still wasn't going to do everything in his power to drive Lancelot a little bit crazy and try to pester him into talking. But now the conversation had taken a more serious tone, as Gwaine finally turned his thoughts on what he'd been avoiding this whole time. His fear for his friend, what could be happening to him. "Why do you think they took Merlin instead of Arthur?" Gwaine asked Lancelot, not at all expecting an answer, and he wasn't disappointed as he was met with focused, but not unkind, silence. He supplied his own theory grimly, "I wouldn't put it past him to tell them he was the prince just to keep Arthur safe."

Lancelot finally spoke up, glancing over at his companion and shaking his head. "No, he wouldn't," he said confidently.

"And you know Merlin so well?" Gwaine asked grumpily. "You forget that I know him quite well – much better than you do, I'm sure. I know what a reckless, self-sacrificing idiot he can be."

"I'm sure you and Merlin are wonderful friends," Lancelot answered diplomatically. "I'm just saying that the Merlin I know would do anything to keep himself from being separated from Arthur, and telling them that he was the prince would've ensured it. He would have tried to figure something else out, so that he wouldn't leave Arthur. He truly believes that he's the only one who can properly take care of the prince."

Gwaine shrugged half-heartedly, not liking that Lancelot was right. "Yeah, maybe," he muttered. "Do you think they've taken good care of him?" Lancelot didn't answer but the haunting look in his eyes was more than enough of an answer. "He'll be all right, though," Gwaine plowed on, and he tried not to sound like he was trying to reassure himself rather than Lancelot. "Merlin's stronger than people give him credit for."

For once, Lancelot agreed with him. "That he is. Merlin may be small, but he's smart, and stronger than most people think. I have no doubt that he can take care of himself."

"Raiders are known to be bloody vicious, though," Gwaine mused darkly. "What if they find out he's not the prince? How long can Merlin really keep up the charade?" He hadn't wanted to venture down this line of thought or conversation, knowing that once he started worrying and voicing his concerns about his closest friend, he would be hard-pressed to stop. He'd tried to focus on the rescue, on the fact that they were going to retrieve Merlin, nothing else, not what could be happening to him, not any of the "what-ifs" – Gwaine was not, by nature, a "what-if" kind of man; he liked to live in the moment and not worry about the past or the future, and sometimes not even the present – but now it seemed like his fears were parading through his mind with no intention to take a break.

Lords, friendship was a lot harder than Gwaine would have imagined. The ways having someone you genuinely cared about could mess with your mind, the very essence of who you are...

Something cracked deeper in the woods, and if Gwaine hadn't been taking an uncharacteristically quiet thinking break, neither one of them would have heard it. As it was, they both froze, drawing their weapons, ready for a fight were it to come to that if it were bandits or a Camelot patrol, but also well-aware that it could be any manner of cute, furry forest critter.

That's when a voice wafted through the trees. They couldn't tell what it was saying, but it was definitely male, pretty far off in the distance.

"We should skirt around them," Gwaine whispered. "They're far enough away that we can avoid them without too much trouble."

Lancelot had a thoughtful look on his face. "No, let's get closer, try to get a closer look. I've got a hunch."

Gwaine scoffed quietly. "Your back looks perfectly straight to me, but if you're so worried about it, go see a physician. I, on the other hand, am on a quest to rescue my friend, and I actually waited a lot longer to team up with you than I'd planned, so I've wasted enough time already. You follow your hunch; I'm going to help Merlin." He started to stalk away dramatically (he even flipped his hair at one point), but Lancelot reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Just... trust me," he said.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "I just met you."

"Merlin trusts me," Lancelot said seriously. "Just like he trusts you. Can you please trust me, just this once, and if I'm wrong, you never have to trust me again."

Gwaine huffed, irritated that Prance-a-lot had pulled the Merlin card, but he couldn't combat its effectiveness. "Fine. Just this once."

They slipped through the trees in the direction that the voice had come from.

\---

They had managed to get close enough to see that there were four men, all in chain mail and armor with red cloaks. They hadn't heard their followers yet, as Lancelot and Gwaine had stayed a fair distance behind. Not so far behind, however, that Lancelot didn't recognize two of the men before them.

Lancelot pulled Gwaine behind a large tree and whispered, "I told you so."

Gwaine grimaced. "There's no way you could've been sure it was the princess," he said disbelievingly.

"I thought I recognized the timbre of his voice and the inflections on his words," Lancelot tried to explain, but Gwaine apparently wasn't buying it.

"It was a shot in the dark, Prance-a-lot. You couldn't have known."

Lancelot shrugged. "Perhaps it was a long shot, but I knew I recognized the voice, and I also knew that as soon as Arthur was able to get out again, he'd be on Merlin's trail. If it were bandits, they'd be louder, and there'd be more of them. If it were a patrol, there would have been more voices, and horses. Therefore, I assumed it was a small band of travelers who are either hunting or on some sort of quest. I put two and two together and got—"

"Seventeen," Gwaine finished irritably. "It was a wild guess."

"It was deduction," Lancelot snapped back. "And what does it matter? I was right. So let's go get Arthur, team up with him and his men."

"Ah, ah, ah," Gwaine said patronizingly, and Lancelot wondered if having someone to watch his back on this impossible quest was really worth all the... Gwaine. "You recognized Arthur and that other knight, the one who only wishes his hair is as amazing as mine, but I recognized one of those two at the back."

"What is his name?"

"Dunno."

Lancelot felt a stab of annoyance. "I thought you said you recognized him."

"I do, but I don't _know_ him. But he's one of the guards that threw me in the dungeon when Uther had me arrested for saving Merlin's life. I'd remember that ugly profile anywhere."

"So he's one of Uther's men?" Lancelot realized with clarity. "Ah. So Arthur's not out on his own, then; the king is having him watched so he can't go after Merlin."

Gwaine growled. "Uther Pendragon is a big, fat—"

"Gwaine," Lancelot chided. "Not exactly helping. I know Arthur and Leon – yes, that's the Leon you've been communicating with – so they're obviously here to help Merlin, but with Uther's men on their tails, they're not going to be able to get much of anywhere. We've got to find a way to get Arthur and Leon away from their babysitters."

Gwaine thought for a moment, and then got a look on his scruffy face that made Lancelot just a little bit nervous. "I think," he said, and Lancelot thought to himself that Gwaine's thinking was a bit of a scary prospect, "I have an idea."

\---

Arthur and Leon were on the move again, the guards assigned to watch them right behind them. "Sire, I really think your turning back would be the best option for now," Leon said softly. "The men are going to get suspicious about the 'hunting trip' if we drag it out much longer."

"It doesn't matter, Leon. Have you noticed our route?" "Yes. We seem to be going around in circles, hoping to lose them." Arthur chuckled. "But I've been slowly directing us closer to the coastline. They haven't seemed to notice or put the dots together yet."

"It's only a matter of time, though, Arthur. I really think—"

"Wait," said Arthur, holding a hand up to signal a halt. Leon, Anthony and Cedric all stopped. "I think I hear something." Sure enough, a rustle in the foliage around them sounded once again.

"A rabbit?" Anthony said, unimpressed. "We should shoot it. There hasn't been a great deal of hunting going on."

Arthur seethed, but put on an air of indifference. "I'm after larger game, Sir Anthony," he reminded the man.

"Then perhaps it is a deer," Cedric put in.

"No," Arthur said, slowly drawing his sword. "Bandits."

As soon as he said it, said bandits leapt out the trees and attacked.

\---

The funny thing was, there were only two bandits, but they fought like trained swordsmen instead of, well, bandits, with a precision and force that Arthur usually saw only in trained fighters.

Normally, bandits wielded their swords wildly, chaotically, swinging them around with fury but without much thought. So while they were fierce and could be difficult to fight, there wasn't much intelligence in their attacks, and they were usually fairly easy to defeat, as long as there wasn't a slew of them attacking all at once. Two bandits should have been easy.

It was not.

They went for Sirs Cedric and Anthony first, not going for the kill, it seemed, as they rushed the men, exchanged a few blows with the men, and instead of going for the heart or gut, they spun around, surprised the knights, and bashed them on the back of their heads with the hilts of their swords. The two bandits did this in almost perfect synchronization.

They managed all this by the time that Arthur and Leon reached them. Arthur's sword was at the ready, muscles tense in preparation for a fight, when one of the bandits pulled of his hood and put a finger over his lips.

Arthur halted his attack moments before it impaled Lancelot. "What... the... _hell_?!" Arthur breathed, glancing down to make sure that Anthony and Cedric were indeed unconscious.

"We came to rescue you from your father's men," the other man whispered, and Arthur would recognize that lilting voice anywhere.

"Oh gods," he said, exchanging an incredulous glance with Leon. "Gwaine? What are you doing here?"

"I just told you," Gwaine supplied cheekily.

"But how... why...?"

"We'll explain later," Lancelot said quickly as one of the men started to stir. He reached into a bag that was slung across his shoulder and pulled out a sturdy coil of rope. "Right now, we need to tie you and your friends up and take you captive. For Merlin."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

But he didn't fight when a hood was shoved over his head and his hands were pulled behind his back and tied there. He assumed these two knew what they were doing, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

\---

"The air is getting colder," Merlin noted as he listened to Kol hacking away in the chair next to the bed that Merlin had been confined to.

Stifling another cough, Kol responded, "We're getting closer. You've not been on deck like I've been; you haven't seen the icy film on the waves. We've been traveling for over a month now, you know."

Merlin blinked. "Have we really? I've lost count." He sniffled. His throat burned. Kol coughed some more, his face pale. Merlin furrowed his brow. "You need to rest," he said. "You're making yourself ill."

"You're already ill," Kol pointed out.

"I'm getting better," Merlin protested, which wasn't remotely true.

"I'm not sure that going five minutes without coughing up a lung is really progress."

Merlin sighed heavily, then immediately regretted it as his throat burned and a large, wet cough wracked his emaciated frame.

It had only been a few hours since he'd woken up after the storm, but he was feeling a bit better than when he'd first woken, dazed, terrified, and disoriented. Still, he felt like he'd been run over by a carriage, but Kol was obviously sick as well, as much as he claimed otherwise.

Merlin changed the subject. "How much longer until we get there, anyway?"

"From what I heard Onäm saying earlier, maybe another week or two, depending on the weather."

"And what..." Merlin broke off, not really wanting to know the answer to his unspoken question.

Kol seemed to sense Merlin's query anyway, though, and like he'd read Merlin's mind he said, "No one has seen the prince back home, either, as far as I know. We've taken noble hostages before, and from what I've seen, as long as you don't fight back, the Jarl will have your injuries looked at and you'll be taken relatively good care of. You'll be imprisoned in the dungeon throughout your stay, which will probably span at least a year, as the ransom is taken care of. If the ransom isn't paid or the king won't work with us, then you'll be sold as a slave or killed."

"So you're saying I have a bright future ahead of me to look forward to?" Merlin asked dryly. At least he had his magic. Once he reached dry land and was presented an opportunity to escape, he was going to take it, and he'd worry about finding passage back to Camelot afterwards. He had no intention of being sold or executed, for he knew that Uther would have no intention of paying the ransom.

Kol cleared his throat, a slight lopsided grin on his face. "I think the hardest part for you will be adjusting to the cold. And as cold as it is in the village, it's nothing compared to the harsh winter storms that rage across the open country."

Merlin's heart hammered as he heard the double-meaning, whether Kol had intended it or not, in the words. Trying to escape would be a fool's errand, because the elements would kill him even if the Vikings didn't.

But still. Kol didn't know about his magic. His magic was his only hope now, and he wasn't going to let the threat of freezing in the wilderness keep him from getting back to what really mattered: Camelot, Arthur, his destiny.

He coughed again, burning pain spiraling through his congested chest.

That is, if the sickness didn't take him first. 


	10. Quarrels of the Questing Quartet

They left Sirs Anthony and Cedric knocked out and tied up in the forest.

"We can't just leave them here to die," Arthur protested as Lancelot quickly began to untie the knots that bound the prince's hands together behind his back. Gwaine was working on Leon's ropes, hacking away at the thick cords with a short knife.

"They'll be fine," Gwaine said flippantly as he finished with Leon's bonds and clapped the older knight on the shoulder.

"They'll starve," Leon pointed out.

Arthur brought his wrists around to his front and rubbed them gently. Even though the "bandits" hadn't tied him tightly, his arms were still tingly from being held behind him for several hours.

Gwaine grinned easily. "Nope, they'll dry out from lack of water long before that."

"You're not exactly helping our case, Gwaine," Lancelot put in, rolling dark eyes in exasperation. He turned back to Arthur. "Don't worry. We didn't tie them too tightly. They'll eventually be able to wiggle free. And even if they aren't able to squirm free, I left a knife across the clearing. They'll spot it and be able to free themselves."

"But either way, it'll take a while," Gwaine interrupted, earning an impatient glare from Lancelot, which amused Arthur greatly, despite the situation they were in. Lancelot was one of the most even-tempered men he'd ever met, and it was actually hilarious how quickly Gwaine was able to get under his skin. "'Cause they'll have to wake up first, and then they'll have to wiggle free."

"And then," Lancelot said as he watched Gwaine reach into the folds of his cloak and pull out a folded piece of parchment and a broken piece of charcoal, "there will be the ransom note."

"Ransom note?" Leon asked.

Everything came together for Arthur. "Of course;  _that's_  why you tied Leon and I up as well, so that Anthony and Cedric would see us as captives, too." Once the guards had woken up from the first blow from their attackers, it was to see that they, as well as Arthur and Leon, had been tied to trees surrounding a small clearing. They'd all been given a few gulps of water from a water skin, and then the two bound and gagged knights had been hit upside the head again, rendering them deeply unconscious.

"Yep," Gwaine acknowledged with a short dip of his head. "So I'm going to write out a ransom note and leave it in one of their pockets so that when they wake up and get out, they'll assume that the prince and his right-hand-man have been captured by bandits. We'll cover up our tracks; that will give us the time we need to get away from them and get to Gedref, hopefully without any more delays, and you won't get into trouble with your father for disobeying him because he'll think that you were taken captive."

"But when I return with my servant who was actually taken by Raiders, he might begin to get suspicious," Arthur pointed out.

"We'll cross that bridge and any other eventualities that we haven't planned for when we get to them," Gwaine said, brushing off the worry. "As it is, I think it's a damn good plan for the moment, and more than enough to buy us the time we need to get to the coast and secure us a vessel."

Leon and Arthur exchanged hopeful glances. "That's... actually rather brilliant, Gwaine," Arthur praised the man, who beamed like Yule had come early.

"I'll be writing the note, though," Lancelot said, deftly snagging the parchment from Gwaine's hands.

Gwaine pouted, clenching his fist over the charcoal, not willing to give up quite so quickly. "Why? The note was my idea."

"It was  _our_  idea," Lancelot argued tonelessly. "And besides, a ransom note isn't going to be of much use if you can't read heads or tails of it. They'll probably think it's an invitation to a ball or something."

"I object to that!" Gwaine protested in a loud whisper. When the other three looked at him, clearly unimpressed, he added a vehement, "Strongly!"

"Gwaine, we're pleased that you're so eager to help," Leon started diplomatically, and Gwaine scoffed, but the knight plowed on, undeterred by his petulance, "but seeing as I helped Gaius and Gwen contact you, and therefore have read some of your letters, I can attest to the fact that your handwriting... leaves much to be desired. It took the three of us nearly four days to translate your second note... and it was two sentences long."

"I was rushed," Gwaine pouted, crossing his arms across his chest, still holding the writing utensil stubbornly in his fist. "And d'you think the king's going to believe that a bandit's going to have prissy handwriting?"

Lancelot fumed. "My handwriting is  _not—_ "

"Okay,  _enough!_ " Arthur finally hissed, the novelty of seeing Lancelot so flustered by a long-haired man-child long gone. The longer they stood here and argued, the more time they wasted that they could be getting away from his father's men, and with every moment, Merlin was farther and farther away. He told his companions as much, and this instantly sobered them.

"Lancelot, you write the note," Arthur dictated, raising an eyebrow in Gwaine's direction when the man looked like he was about to argue, and to his relief, Gwaine sighed heavily and opened his fist, holding the charcoal out in an open palm. He looked like a young boy who had just been caught stealing sweets from the pantry, with one hand on his hip, head turned away from Lancelot and nose in the air, the other arm completely outstretched with the offending item sitting in his hand.

Lancelot snatched the stick of charcoal away from Gwaine like he was afraid the fingers were going to snap shut over his own it he didn't move them quickly enough.

"Oh, and Lancelot, Gwaine  _does_  have a point. Don't write too fancily. My father does need to believe the ransom demand is actually from bandits."

Lancelot nodded stiffly. He crouched, using his leg to bear down on, and quickly scribbled a note in hasty, but legible writing, easily evading Gwaine's grasping fingers as he tried to take the parchment back and giving the note directly to Arthur. Arthur read the words out loud, ignoring the way that Gwaine was glowering at Lancelot in his peripheral vision. "'King Uther – We have the prince. Demands will be delivered by the time two moons have passed. Gather your wealth and prepare for a pilgrimage to a place that will be decided. Try any trickery and the kingdom will have no heir.'" He nodded slowly. "I like it. Simple, to the point, and it actually gives us two months headstart. By the time the specific demands are supposed to arrive, we will already be far out to sea."

Lancelot smiled humbly. Gwaine begrudgingly said, "I suppose it's all right, but do you really think a bandit would use the word  _pilgrimage_? Seems a bit pompous, if you ask me."

"Then it's a good job nobody did ask you," Lancelot snapped, causing the other three men's eyes to widen at the sudden uncharacteristic snipe.

"Gwaine, it's fine," Leon finally said.

"Yes, Gwaine. Leave it. Please," Arthur all but pleaded.

Gwaine nodded, rolling his eyes. "Only because we're wasting time we could be helping Merlin. Otherwise, I'd stand my ground 'til kingdom come."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Arthur commented wearily. "Lancelot, check to make sure they're still unconscious when you leave the note. And make sure they can get away eventually."

Lancelot obeyed, checking not only that their eyes were closed, but that their breathing was even and steady, confirming that they hadn't woken up and were pretending to sleep. They were still unconscious. "Should I hit them again?" he asked quietly. "To make sure they stay asleep longer?"

Arthur thought for a moment, trying to pretend that Gwaine wasn't "subtly" bobbing his head like a fleeing wild turkey, and finally shook his head. "No. I don't want to risk seriously injuring them. Despite my distaste for them, they are good men, and they are some of my father's most trusted knights."

"Of course, sire," Lancelot said, straightening up. "Shall we move on, then, before they come to?"

"Absolutely," Arthur agreed, gesturing for Leon and Gwaine to start moving. "This way to Gedref. And, Gwaine, I know it's difficult for you, but you really need to keep quiet. I really don't want to run into any patrols, if you don't mind. Or actual bandits. We've been delayed in helping Merlin for long enough."

* * *

**_Three Days Later_ **

"There are certain perks to being ill," Merlin rasped as he felt the cool cloth come in contact with his burning forehead again. He felt stuffy and hot, like someone had draped a thick woolen blanket over his entire body, from head to toe, and then sat on his face. His chest was agonizingly tight. Simply drawing in a breath was a chore now.

He could feel fluid in his lungs, and he hadn't been able to speak properly because of his stuffy nose and head for days now. Kol wasn't doing too much better, but his body had had this kind of sickness before, and while he hadn't so much built up an immunity to it, he was better accustomed to the symptoms and his body was doing a better job of fighting it off. Merlin's condition, however, had deteriorated seriously over the past seventy-two hours, and Kol had turned from babysitter to sickbed nurse by some unspoken consent between him, Merlin, and the other raiders, who hadn't actually been down to Merlin's cabin since the storm.

Kol looked at him strangely. "I think you're delirious, M-Arthur," he decided. Ever since learning Merlin's true identity, Kol had slipped up more than once, and as much as Merlin yearned to be called by his name, to stop being Prince Arthur, it was simply too dangerous to allow Kol to address him by his real name.

Merlin wheezed in a tight, agonizingly painful breath and let it out as what was perhaps the most pitiful huff of laughter that had ever passed from his dry lips. "My Viking friends..." (here he wheezed in another breath) "...have finally..." ( _gasp_ ) "...realized that..." (he wheezed) "...they won't get much plunder..." (he huffed and strained for even the smallest bit of air) "...from a dead prince." It took him about three times longer than it should have to actually stammer out the sentence due to his periodic breathing (or attempted breathing) breaks, and on top of that, the inability to breathe through his nose turned the declaration into something sounding more like,  _By Viking freds... hab fidally... realized that... they wod't get buch pludder... frob a dead prince._  Kol seemed to get the idea, however.

"Well, they are brutal, and they like to push things to the absolute limit, but even they know that unless they want all their hard work to go to waste, they can't keep beating a sick man."

"What about... a dying bad?"  _What about a dying man?_

"You're not dying." Kol didn't sound terribly convinced.

"The cold air probably... wod't help... be very buch... will it?"  _The cold air probably won't help me very much, will it?_

"What do you mean?" Kol asked, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as Merlin carefully and slowly moved his less injured arm to swipe a trembling hand across his sweaty forehad.

"It's hot below... but it will be... cold whed we get to... your land... cold... isn't good... for dying bend."  _It's hot below, but it will be cold when you get to your land. Cold isn't good for dying men._

"We're very, very close, Merlin," Kol said, the concern in his voice palpable. Merlin didn't waste his energy reminding Kol that he was "Arthur" this time. His chest hurt so badly... And his head... And...

Oh, and Kol was talking again.

"Whad?"  _What?_

"I said," (Kol coughed into his sleeve), "We are mere days away from land. We'll probably see the coast by tomorrow morning. It's icy and the wind's blowing and it's just about as cold as it's going to get, maybe even a little colder, since we're on the water and the wind is always worse on the sea."

"Bud I'b udder the boat," Merlin slurred weakly. "'S warb dowd here. Hot."  _But I'm under the boat. It's warm down here. Hot._

"It's  _freezing_ ," Kol said softly, pressing his hand to Merlin's forehead. The contact seemed to sear Merlin's skin, making the air around him even stuffier, almost impossible to breathe. He tried to move away, but the slight shifting of his battered and ailing body caused a ripple of pain to shoot through him, head to toe. He coughed, and then couldn't stop coughing.

When he finally finished, his body was trembling uncontrollably and his heart was weakly but persistently battering itself against his ribs, which now jutted sharply out of his emaciated figure, pale and feverish skin stretched far too tightly over his rib cage. He gasped and heaved for breath that simply wouldn't come, his body jerking slightly with each fruitless pull for air.

"Calm down," Kol said, not sounding very calm at all, eyes wide as he tried to hold Merlin down on the bed, in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself even more.

" _Guuuhhh,_ " Merlin gasped, "Can't... Breathe..." He gagged, the unforgiving fist over his heart and chest squeezing even tighter. A strange gurgling sound rent from his throat. He groaned, fought desperately for even the tiniest drag of air, and finally, something changed, or shifted, ever so slightly, and a huge, rattling breath-cough lunged out of his chest. He coughed a bit more, then flopped his head back, able to (somewhat) breathe again and utterly exhausted.

He shakily lifted his good arm and swiped his dirty and tattered sleeve across his mouth, eyes widening when it came back sporting droplets of red against the faded blue fabric. His fever-glazed eyes rose up to meet Kol's own gaze, which was dead serious now.

"I'm going to go above deck," he said quickly. "We need to pick up speed in any way possible. We need to get you to a healer – quickly." Merlin probably should have felt dread or fear at the underlying fear in Kol's voice, the fear that said that even if they were able to get Merlin to healer soon, that might very well not be enough. But he wasn't afraid, or even hurting anymore.

He was asleep.

He didn't even hear it when Kol's chair scraped across the wooden floor and he sprinted loudly across the cabin to the door, rushing to share the grim news with the rest of the crew, who couldn't care less about Merlin's health, other than that he stay alive long enough to get their ransom.

* * *

"Do you smell that?" Leon asked, eyes widening.

"Don't look at me," Gwaine grumbled. "Lancelot ate the last of the pickled eggs last night."

"No I didn't. You did."

"Regardless," said Gwaine. "Whatever you smell, it's not me."

"I know," said Leon. "Salt."

"We're getting close," Arthur said, his already fast pace quickening even more. "If I remember correctly, the forest will come to an end after this hill. We'll be able to see the coastline and the Labyrinth from there, and the villages aren't too far down the coast from it."

"Yes, sire," Leon nodded. "I remember the way well. We will reach the coastal towns by nightfall."

"Good thing, too," Gwaine said. "We've exhausted most of our food and supplies."

"We will have to purchase much more before we embark upon our journey," Leon said.

"Not to mention we'll have to find a ship and find someone to take us," Lancelot added.

"It shouldn't be too hard with the princess with us," Gwaine reasoned.

"Except I really don't want anyone to know it's me," Arthur reminded the man, pointedly choosing to ignore Gwaine's obnoxious nickname for him. "I suppose if we've no other choice, I can reveal my identity, and word shouldn't reach my father of my whereabouts until after we have departed, but still... I brought plenty of gold; hopefully that will cover any expenses."

They crested the top of the hill, and everyone stood over the grassy, tree-spotted valley that reached into the distance and gradually turned into sand. The small brown structures of houses and villages, coupled with distant, hazy smoke from chimneys, dotted the coast, which seemed to go on in either direction forever. They couldn't see the ocean from here, but it was just beyond the villages.

A huge green labyrinth rose from the grass far in the distance, looking like a child's plaything from this distance, but Arthur knew from experience that it was in reality huge and nearly impossible to navigate. The whole place had an eerie, magical feel to it, and Arthur could sense the underlying current of power and mystery even from this distance. He thought briefly about Amphora, the Keeper of the Unicorns, who had chosen the Labyrinth of Gedref for Arthur's final test several years ago. For the tiniest of moments, he wondered if he could find the mystical specter, if Amphora would be able to help him find and save Merlin.

He quickly disregarded the thought, for not only did he recognize that the man only did things on his own terms, and would almost certainly refuse. Also, he had magic, and Arthur, desperate as he was to save Merlin, knew better than to even consider turning to magic to rescue his servant.

"Arthur? We should start moving again. We're almost there," said Lancelot softly.

Arthur dragged his eyes away from the ethereal sight of the foggy labyrinth and struck forward resolutely again. By this time tomorrow, he was steadfastly determined to not only have whatever amount of supplies required, and to have hired a crew and boat, but to already be out on the sea, making real progress in his quest to save his servant.

Now that they were so close that they could literally taste the salty sea air, Arthur was even more determined than ever.

He  _was_  going to bring Merlin back to Camelot, safe and sound.

He wouldn't accept anything less.

The rest of the journey was walked in silence, everyone, even Gwaine, wrapped up in their own thoughts and worries and fears about the upcoming quest, for there was something that none of them had acknowledged yet, to each other or even to themselves.

None of them, never, not once, had sailed in a ship across the sea. Out of the four of them, only Arthur had ever been on a boat.

And quite frankly, the idea was rather terrifying.


	11. Land, Ho!

The next time Merlin awoke, it was to the realization that something – he had no idea what – was different. And, for once in the hell that had been his life for several months now, it wasn't bad different. It wasn't even neutral different. It was... it was  _good_  different.

What did that mean? Had he been rescued? Had Arthur managed to find him, fight off the Vikings, and rescue him?

As much as Merlin wanted that to be the case, he knew that it wasn't. While he still couldn't place the good difference, he knew hoping he had been rescued would be pointless. Besides, if he  _had_  been rescued, he would be hearing something other than this eerie silence, wouldn't he? Voices, Arthur's prattish orders being shouted to anyone within listening distance, people, anything but this quiet. In fact, it was so quiet that he couldn't even hear the lapping of the waves against the hull of the ship, or the shouts of the Vikings from an upper deck, or Kol's sneezing, or the endless, freezing expanse of water crashing around outside.

It was then, upon realizing that he couldn't hear the waves or the other ocean sounds that he had unfortunately become somewhat accustomed to during his captivity on the ship, that he made another monumental discovery: he couldn't feel the rocking of the cursed vessel on the waters. He was still. He wasn't moving.

He wasn't on the boat anymore!

With this staggering but oh-so-welcome realization, Merlin's eyes snapped open.

The first thing he saw once his vision had stopped swimming was gray. He blinked, and realized that he was staring at a ceiling, a stone ceiling. He never thought he would be so happy to see rock and stone, but after spending those horrid months on that boat seeing nothing but wood – wooden floors, wooden walls – or whatever walls were called on ships; he didn't really care either way – wooden ceilings, wooden decks... The stone, dark and dank as it was, was very much a welcome sight to Merlin, as it was further proof that he really was off of the sea and back on land.

His stomach chose that moment to do a complete flip-flop as the rest of his situation began to set in.

He was on land, yes – and thank the gods! – but it wasn't his own land. Wherever he was (he assumed it was the land of the Vikings), he was hundreds of miles from Camelot, and still a captive and at the mercy of said captives.

Suddenly desperate to know more about his surroundings, Merlin turned his head to look to the side and groaned not only in pain, but at the effort it took to complete that one simple movement. Pain had exploded behind his eyes, his forehead, temples, nose and cheeks; even his  _teeth_  hurt from all of the excruciating pressure that had built up inside of his skull. The little moan of discomfort caused his throat to tickle and he only had a second to think  _oh no, not again_  before he was coughing again.

To his surprise, the coughs didn't seem to be nearly as deep as they had been the last time he remembered being awake, but they were much more painful. His throat felt like it was lined with hot coals, or perhaps someone had jabbed thousands of needles into the inside of his throat. Either way, with each wracking cough, a nearly debilitating bout of pain shot through his chest and throat, burning like fire. He licked his dry lips; he needed water.

When he finally stopped hacking and his vision came back into focus, it was to a room that was completely foreign to him, but also achingly different. He supposed that no matter what part of the world you were in, a physician's chamber was a physician's chamber. The walls were made of the same stone as the ceiling, but they were mostly covered by shelves stocked with various potion bottles of different shapes and sizes, containing liquids of a variety of colors. Several beds, much like the ones he and Gaius slept in at home, but perhaps a bit more crudely built, lined the wall he was looking at. He surmised that there was another short row of cots along the wall on the opposite side of the room, and that he was currently occupying one of them.

A few candles in heavy iron sconces lit the mid-sized room with a flickering yellow light. There were no windows, so Merlin had no way of telling if it were night or day. A huge, heavy-looking wooden door, faded from age or elements or both, was bolted closed on the wall perpendicular to the two walls of beds.

Merlin didn't have the strength to shift his body around so that he could inspect the area at the back of the room, but with some clumsy, achy exploring with his shaking hands and fingertips, he was able to feel what must be a wall directly behind him, confirming his earlier deductions about his bed being along the wall opposite to the one he was staring at.

With an exhausted sigh, Merlin let his good arm drop to the bed beside him and glanced down at his injured wrist, somewhat surprised but at the same time pleased to find that the broken bone had been set and bound tightly and professionally, and was supported by a crude but effective handmade splint.

Swiveling his eyes around just a bit, he made out something he had missed in his earlier inspection of his new surroundings: a plain wooden table with one wooden chair, and on top of that table was a steaming mug of something that Merlin had no idea what it was, but he thought it was probably delicious, and a metal plate with several pieces of cooked, steaming meat and a few thick pieces of bread. Merlin wondered how he could have missed this the first time around, though it probably had something to do with the fact that he'd been more focused on the walls than the center of the room, where the table and food sat. He hadn't been alerted to the presence of the food because of the smell because he still couldn't breathe out of his nose.

He was contemplating how much energy it would take to heave himself off of his bed and to his feet in order to get to that tantalizing plate of food – real food! – when he heard the rapidly approaching sound of loud, angry voices from outside of the door. Merlin froze, wondering what he should do, as the voices – still muffled and distant, but growing clearer and closer by the moment – raged at one another.

When the din of the quarrel increased so much that Merlin could understand every word that was being said, and he could tell that the arguing people were right outside of the door, he made a quick decision to feign unconsciousness until he could better gauge the situation.

"—not well enough!" a voice, rough and low and with the same accent as the Vikings, but definitely female, growled from the other side of the door as the voices came into hearing range.

Another voice, this one easily recognizable as the brutal, dreaded voice of the leader of the Vikings, the source of Merlin's nightmares for weeks on end. Onäm.

"We did not bring that spoiled brat here to treat him like royalty! As soon as he is no longer in danger of death, you  _will_  summon me!"

The female voice didn't sound like its owner was terribly perturbed by the angry orders of the Viking, and as the door unlatched and was slowly opened, she said, "If you hadn't tortured the boy on the voyage back to Holbaek, you wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place! If you want to get your ransom, you have to make sure your leverage doesn't die within the first few months with you!"

Merlin had to force himself not to flinch at the Viking's voice, which was much louder and much closer than before. Heavy footsteps followed the woman into the room. "I will  _not_  be spoken to like—"

"I am not telling you anything you do not already know!" the woman snapped, and Merlin had to mentally commend her bravery. "I don't think you want to know how close to losing your means to Camelot's riches you were. As if his injuries weren't enough, he was so ill he was on the brink of death when you brought him to me! If it hadn't been for my poultices and experience with these kind of sicknesses, this whole venture of yours would have been for naught!"

"If our whole village didn't depend on your medicinal knowledge and healing abilities—"

"Yes, I know, you'd string me up in the middle of the square in naught but my nightdress and let the cold take me to the next life. I've heard this threat one too many times, Onäm, and it's hardly frightening anymore."

There was a shout of rage and the sound of a fist striking wood, then of glass breaking and liquid splashing. Merlin wasn't able to entirely stop himself from tensing at the sudden outburst, but thankfully no one noticed.

"And there you go breaking my potions again. These are hard to come by, you know. Until you find a physician with my skills, you would be bringing about your own death by killing me, and you know that's never going to happen. So why don't you leave me to tend to my patient in peace? I will alert you when he wakes."

There was another growl, this one less angry and more resigned. "Sometimes I wonder why we put up with you, even with your usefulness. You are a cantankerous old hag, Mother."

At this revelation, Merlin almost choked on his own tongue.  _Mother?!_

"And you are a vile, stinking pig. Now leave me be. I swear, these fool missions of yours are going to turn sour someday. What happened to just plundering, pillaging, and fleeing with the loot? Now we're making deals and bargains for the lives of foreign royals?"

Onäm's voice was a bit farther away now, and his footsteps were leading steadily in the direction of the door. "The old ways are dying."

"Tradition keeps us alive. There are great dangers to be had with ransoming nobles. Do you really want their wrath to come down upon us for taking their own?"

Merlin could hear the sneer in Onäm's voice. "I would like to see them try to come for him. There's no one stupid enough to try to follow us across the seas. And no one knows how to come upon our land. No, they will pay the ransom. I am sure of it."

"Harumph. Well, what I'm sure of is that you've wasted enough of my time. Get out of my chambers, and go harass some hapless citizens or grace your wife with your deplorable presence."

Onäm chuckled. "Aye, that I can do."

Merlin couldn't believe that this disgusting excuse for a man had a wife. It was hard to believe he had a mother, even, because Merlin had half-believed the man and his crew had just spawned from the darkness that now filled their own hearts.

The footsteps receded, and the door slammed shut, rattling the shelves and potions around the room. Merlin didn't move, only lay there and tried to keep his breathing steady so that the woman –  _Onäm's mother_ , of all things, wouldn't know he was awake.

"You can open your eyes now, Prince Arthur. I know you are awake."

Well, so much for that plan.

Merlin opened his eyes slowly and turned his head slightly to focus in on the woman before him, hissing in pain at the small movement. When he spoke, it was to find that his voice was harsh and croaky from disuse and sickness. "How did you know?"

"Onäm's tantrum surprised you. You flinched a bit. Plus, I am a seasoned physician. Do you not think I know how to tell if someone is truly asleep?"

Merlin didn't answer, only took a moment to study the woman who had been one step ahead of him this entire time. She certainly didn't look like she belonged here, in the mad world of Vikings and raiders and brutality and cold, let alone like she could possibly be the mother of a monster like Onäm. She was a portly woman, with rotund hips and waist and, well, everything, really. Her face was pale and pudgy, her cheeks a surprising rosy red, nose upturned and strangely dainty for such a well-fed figure. Her gray hair was braided into two long, immaculately groomed plaits that draped over her broad shoulders and stopped halfway down her chest, each braid tied at the end with a small strip of leather. She was short, just a bit more than half the height of her giant of a son. She looked gruff, kind of angry, but there was something in her guarded light blue eyes that Merlin had seen in only one other person during his captivity.

Kindness, if only the tiniest fragment was visible.

And then he thought about the other person who had been kind to him and his stomach twisted, because he was the only one occupying any of the beds in the chamber, but he wasn't the only one who was ill.

"Where's Kol?" he asked, his throat feeling like it was being shredded by a griffin's claws with each word that he spoke

"The apprentice?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I wanted to treat him, too, but Onäm put him straight to work in the kitchens. At least he's not working outside in his condition, but he needs to be looked after. Boy's going to catch his death someday, and I'm beginning to think that day's coming upon us rather quickly.

Merlin clenched his working fist tightly, anger surging through him. Onäm simply had no heart. That had to be the explanation for all of this.

He realized there was nothing he could do about it right now, though, so he changed subjects, wincing at the toll his speaking was taking on his brutalized throat. "Thank you… for healing me."

She chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. "You were almost dead when they brought you in. Delirious, feverish, coughing up blood and barely able to draw a breath. You were almost beyond the point where even I could have saved you."

"Coughing up blood?" Merlin frowned. "I've seen that quite a few times, and it has never ended well. I thought that once that started, there is little to no chance of survival."

The healer looked surprised at his knowledge, and Merlin angrily cursed himself for his lack of thought. She was under the impression that he was the prince of Camelot, not the ward of Camelot's court physician. He quickly covered, "There was once a grave illness within our citadel. I helped my father quarantine the castle and watched our court physician treat many. When the blood appeared, it was always just a matter of time."

 _Please buy it, please buy it_ , Merlin thought frantically, hoping beyond hope that this shrewd old woman wouldn't see through his hasty half-lie. There  _had_ been a plague in Camelot once, but it was of the magical variety, and no one coughed up blood, but Merlin knew from studying with Gaius and from experience with various serious injuries of the knights on the battlefield that coughing up blood was a sign that hope was almost certainly gone.

Thankfully, she believed him. "Usually, it is. But I have been healing and making poultices and remedies for longer than you could imagine. There's very little I can't help now, but you came very close to losing your life anyway. And you are still very ill and weak, and your fever isn't completely gone. You are not out of the woods yet, as it were, Prince Arthur."

"So that's why you didn't tell your son I was actually awake?" Merlin had been wondering why the woman had been lying to Onäm ever since he discovered that she'd known he was no longer unconscious the whole time.

"That, and because I always enjoy getting him riled up. He's such a temper. It's quite funny."

"Hilarious," Merlin said dryly, not really seeing the humor in the man's temper, especially since he'd been the recipient of too much pain and punishment because of said temper. He frowned. "Has he actually threatened to have you killed?"

"Oh, quite often. It gets a bit dull after a while."

"But… you're his mother."

"And there are plenty of times I'd like to split that thick skull of his with my throwing axe. But I don't. Not necessarily because he's blood, but because he's the best at what he does and he brings in a lot of plunder and supplies much of the livelihood of our village. It's a… complicated relationship."

Merlin couldn't quite wrap his mind around the ridiculousness of this woman's relationship with her son. He knew that many families were strained, but this took dysfunctional to a whole new level! Merlin loved his mother more than anything else in the world. He would do anything for her, had tried to die for her ( _tried_ being the key word; apparently his destiny wasn't quite finished with him yet), and would gladly die for her in a heartbeat. To hear this woman talk so casually about his threatening to have her executed and her occasional desire to brain him with an axe…. It was quite disturbing to Merlin, to say the least.

"It's a different world than you're used to, your highness," the woman said in way of explanation. She ended the conversation by striding forward and declaring, "Would you like to see what you've become since the beginning of the voyage? I highly doubt you'd recognize yourself."

"I can't have changed that mu… What?" Merlin broke off flatly, staring at the stranger looking wide-eyed back at him from the mirror that had just been raised to his face. Or was it his face?

He realized suddenly that he hadn't seen his reflection since he'd been taken prisoner. And he'd not been given a chance to shave, or trim his hair, other than the time they'd tied him down and cut off a surprisingly long strip of hair to send back to Camelot as proof of his captivity. But he'd been so sick and so distracted by his injuries that he hadn't even thought about or really noticed that he'd grown a semblance of a beard and that his hair now reached almost to his shoulders. He'd known subconsciously that his hair had grown and that when one went without shaving for any length of time that stubble started to appear and would then slowly turn into beard, but he hadn't made the connection somehow.

Wow, he really  _had_  been ill.

"I don't like it," Merlin said dryly. "I mean, the hair I can live with. Not sure how well it looks on me, but it reminds me of a friend. Sort of. Except that no one can have hair as fluffy as his. His words, not mine." Merlin was rambling, but his mouth seemed to have a life of its own as he stared disbelievingly at his bone-thin, emaciated face, deathly pale with cheekbones even more prominent, and dark beard contrasting startlingly with the whiteness of his face.

"What?"

He shook his head slightly, wincing in pain but also marveling at the way his Gwaine-esque hair flowed with the movement. It was then he realized that his hair was not matted and dirty. "Did you wash my hair?"

"You were filthy when they dragged you in here, and the grime wasn't going to do your illness any favors. So yes, we washed you and your hair."

Merlin didn't ask who 'we' was, as he really didn't want to know, but he felt and watched in the mirror as his face reddened slightly. "Never mind," he said. "Can I shave? The hair's not so bad, but I hate the beard."

"Not now; you need to eat and then rest. Tomorrow, you'll have to go with Onäm to appear before the Jarl, and before then you will wash again and shave."

"Okay," Merlin said simply, because she had mentioned eating and his stomach was on the verge of doing backflips in its excitement. He was so eager for actual nourishment that he barely noticed the pain when she helped him sit up and put a lumpy pillow behind his back to help prop him up. His anxious stomach rumbled loudly as she went to the table and carefully brought the plate of meat and bread to his bed, placing the meal on his lap.

"Eat," she said. "Heal. I can help you only to a point, Prince Arthur, and once you leave my care, your fate is out of my hands."

On that cheery note, she turned away and walked out of the same door that Onäm had disappeared through about ten minutes before.

It was only after she left that Merlin realized he didn't even know her name. He didn't ponder on this for too long, though, because although the meat was salty and tough, it was quite possibly the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted, and his mind was soon solely focused on its consumption, his belly positively aching for something substantial after two months of nothing but stale water, burning rum, and tasteless bread and old cheese.

He'd thank her again and find out her name later. For now, he was content to eat and rest. And plan his escape. For as much as he wanted to use his magic to try to escape to safety right now, he knew that in his weakened condition and with the unfamiliar, freezing terrain he was now in, to attempt a hasty escape, even with the aid of his magic, was not a wise choice. He needed to heal, bide his time, and come up with an actual plan; gather supplies and rations for when he did escape and was out in the bitter cold that he just knew was waiting for him out there.

Yes, he'd think of a plan, and he'd escape, and maybe he'd even find a way to take Kol with him so that the poor apprentice wouldn't have to suffer under the wrath of his supposed "betters" any longer. And he'd properly thank Onäm's mother for her shocking but most certainly not unwelcomed kindness. But as for right now, he was enjoying his delicious meal.

Of course, he'd have enjoyed a lot more if he hadn't thrown it all up about five minutes after he'd finished.

Feeling worse than he had beforehand, Merlin managed a weak flash of his eyes, and to his delight, the puddle of sick on his lap dissipated into nothingness, leaving his blanket draped over him warm and dry once more.

His satisfaction didn't last for long, however, because that same hollow gnawing filled his empty stomach once again and he groaned, curling in on himself as best he could with his still painful ribs protesting the movement.

His eyes drooped shut, and as he drifted off, he found himself desperately hoping that when he woke up again, he'd be back in Camelot, and this would all be a dream.

But he knew that he wouldn't, and it wasn't. Although it was a nightmare. One that he was afraid he'd never get out of if he didn't plan his escape perfectly.

Thoughts of daring, magical quests for freedom chased him into his sleep, but unfortunately, they didn't keep the nightmares away.


	12. Everything Is Not What It Seems (Except When It Is and You're Just Being Paranoid)

Arthur woke up with an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, which only increased as he opened his eyes and saw the unfamiliar ceiling above his head. Instead of the solid stone ceiling of his bedroom in Camelot, he was blearily blinking up at a sturdy but rather homely looking thatch and dirt ceiling. And what was beneath his back most certainly wasn't his plush mattress covered by his soft, downy bedclothes. It almost felt like he was lying on a sack of straw.

He grunted, trying to recall why he was so uncomfortable and why he wasn't in Camelot with an annoying servant hovering over him, saying utterly ridiculous things like "up and at'em" or "let's have you lazy daisy" (What the  _hell_  did that even  _mean_ , anyway? Arthur found himself mentally digressing). He was yanked violently out of his sleepy stupor when a bear suddenly roared right next to him.

Arthur jumped, turned, and saw that the snarling sound hadn't in fact come from a bear, but from a scruffy, long haired man sleeping on a cot a few feet away from Arthur. Gwaine snorted loudly again, then shifted in his sleep, his breathing evening out slightly, loud snores still renting the early morning silence.

Still muddled from sleep, Arthur wondered what on earth had happened to lead to his sharing a dingy inn room with Gwaine... and Lancelot? As Arthur sat up, he saw that sure enough, the dark-haired aspiring knight was on another painfully uncomfortable looking cot on the other side of Gwaine. And then, at the very end of the room, was another bed, this one holding Sir Leon. What the...?

And then his exhaustion fled as he remembered everything.

He, Gwaine, Lancelot and Leon had arrived in the small harbor town of Caryth in the Gedref region late the night before, and it had been too late for them to even think about acquiring supplies or rations for the voyage, let alone figure out how to hire and ship and crew, so they had found the least disgusting pub and inn that they could (though it still smelled strongly of fish and pickled eggs), had a couple of drinks in a dark corner of the pub, and had then rented a small, cramped room in the inn.

Arthur yawned, then grabbed the pathetic excuse for a pillow his head had just been resting on, and threw it at the still slumbering Gwaine, who was sounding remarkably like a mother bear trying to protect her cub. Gwaine shot up, hair somehow managing to look like he'd just combed it even though he'd been tossing and turning in his sleep. Arthur didn't waste any more time dwelling on Gwaine's unnaturally neat hair, and instead grunted tiredly, "Morning."

Gwaine made a face, glanced at the small, too-high window that allowed a bright, albeit dusty, sunbeam to permeate the musty room. "Yes, I can see that it's morning," he deadpanned. He then took the pillow that Arthur had just thrown at him, swung it around to whack Lancelot in the face with it, and then tossed it to the other end of the room to try to wake Leon. His aim was off, however, and the pillow smacked the wall nearly three feet to the left of Leon's head, making a muffled  _fwump_  and then dropping soundlessly to the floor next to the knight's bed.

Leon, however, was not a knight of Camelot for nothing, and along with his great battle skills, bravery, and fortitude, he was also an incredibly light sleeper. He darted awake, instantly grabbing for his sword, which was propped up on the wall right next to his bed.

"Generally, when people have pillow fights, they fight with  _pillows_ , Leo," Gwaine kidded, grinning at the defensive knight. "Swords make things a bit more serious and a helluva lot more dangerous."

Lancelot slowly sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of this hands. "I think we're a bit too old to have pillow fights, Gwaine."

"Speak for yourself, Prance-a-lot. Leo, you can put the sword down now. The big, bad pillow is dead."

"Shut up," Leon groused irritably, and Gwaine raised his eyebrows. Arthur smirked. Gwaine was going to learn very soon that even though Leon was a relatively even-tempered knight, fair and kind, he was quite grumpy in the mornings, and remained so until he had had his breakfast. "And my name is  _Leon_. Sir Leon."

"Yeah, and his name is  _Lancelot,_ " Gwaine said sarcastically, jabbing his thumb in Lancelot's direction.

Lancelot glowered. "My name  _is_  Lancelot."

"Sure, sure."

"Can we not do this right now?" Arthur snapped a bit waspishly. Although the constant back and forth had been amusing when they first started traveling together, it was quickly beginning to grind on his nerves. And Gwaine and Lancelot's constant bickering was starting to remind him somewhat of his and Merlin's 'arguments', which quickly brought his mind back to more serious subjects, and the whole reason he was putting up with the insufferable man-child and would-be knight in the first place. "We've finally made it to the harbor. We're another step closer, and as annoying as this is right now, I have a feeling that it's going to be even worse when we're all trapped on a boat together in the middle of the sea." A stab of nausea stabbed at Arthur's gut at the reminder that dry land was going to soon be a distant memory. He was  _so_ not happy about this. When he got Merlin back, the idiot was going to be cleaning every bit of armor in the armory,  _twice_ , for getting himself kidnapped and making Arthur go on this  _ridiculous_  quest.

A little voice in his head reminded him,  _You don't_ have  _to do anything, Arthur. It would be so easy to just walk away. The boy's fate_ is _regrettable, but—_

Arthur immediately banished the voice that sounded too much like his father's. Arthur had never been one to take the easy way out anyway, and anyway, Merlin was  _his_  responsibility, and he couldn't help but feel like it was at least partially his fault that Merlin was in captivity, since the he'd been taken because they'd thought that he was Arthur.

And Arthur wasn't going to let them get away with taking away Merlin.

With this resolute thought, Arthur was spurred into action, getting to his feet and ordering tersely, "Get ready. We eat, and then we figure out how a man gets aboard a ship around here. Merlin's counting on us."

That sobered everyone, even the childishly sulking Gwaine, and they got dressed and had gathered everything together without another word.

* * *

Gwaine sat at the table in the front corner of the pub, nursing his cup of ale ("No, Prance-a-lot, it's never to early for a drink!"), glancing once again at the shadowy-looking figure that was sitting near the back of the room. He couldn't see the man's face from beneath that gray cowl and the shadows it cast, but Gwaine didn't have to be able to see his eyes to know that the person was watching them. And it was giving him the shivers.

"What's your problem, Gwaine?" Arthur asked, looking as if he'd really rather not know. "It's not nice to stare at people."

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "Tell that to Sir Creepy over there," he said. "That guy's been staring at us since we sat down this morning."

"How can you know for sure?" Leon asked. Gwaine had noticed that the man had become much less touchy since he'd eaten his greasy breakfast.

"I just  _can._  I've got that feeling, like someone's watching me, a chill down my back... like a bunch of little mice are running up and down my spine."

Arthur blinked. "And you know this because you've had a bunch of little mice running up and down your spine before?"

Gwaine considered lying, and saying that yes he had, thank you very much, but he was just too weirded out to worry about it right now, so he simply shot back, "No, but I'd imagine it's quite similar to how it would feel."

"I don't like it either," Lancelot put in softly, his eyes flickering subtly to the cloaked figure at the table, who was still just sitting there, unmoving. Gwaine almost choked on his drink. Lancelot didn't agree with Gwaine. It was one of those little facts of life, like there was no time too early or too late to have ale, or that the most delicious apple was always, without fail, at the very unreachable tip-top of the tree, and no amount of throwing other, less appealing fruits at it would dislodge it from its perch because the universe was unforgiving on matters like these.

"I think you're just being paranoid," Arthur said, but when he noticed that the figure was now getting up and heading in their direction he cursed. "See what you did, Gwaine? You made him mad by staring at him; now he's going to try to start a bar fight that we don't have time to participate in – and don't say that there's always time for a bar fight," he quickly added as Gwaine opened his mouth to respond.

Sulking, as that was exactly what he was about to say, Gwaine clamped his mouth shut and joined the others in warily watching the lone, cloaked figure stride to their table.

"I've been watching you," the man said in a deep, slightly accented voice.

Arthur and Leon exchanged weary glances as Gwaine crowed, "Told you so!"

Even from a few feet away, Gwaine couldn't make out any details of the man's face, and he could only see a tiny glint from the man's eyes from within the shadows of his hood. "It's not nice to stare at people," Gwaine told the man seriously, echoing Arthur's words from earlier and causing the prince to send him a death glare.

The man didn't respond to the jab, only moved a bit closer to the table, his voice lowering. "I heard you talking when you came into the pub last night. You are planning to hire a crew to sail you to the Frozen Lands."

Gwaine glanced at Arthur, whose face remained immobile. Leon was the one to ask, "And if we are, what is it to you?"

"You'll never find men crazy enough to accept your offer, no matter how much gold you wave under their noses," the man said. "No one except the Vikings themselves dares to venture into the harsh, freezing waters of Helheim's Pass and to the lands of the bloodthirsty raiders. It's far too dangerous, too easy to get lost, and on the off chance that you actually make it to shore, you won't last an hour against the Vikings in their own homeland. You're almost certain to fail in whatever daft scheme you're planning."

Everyone at the table was now glaring at the stranger. "Thank you for your advice," Arthur said stonily, blue eyes hard. He'd lowered the hood he'd been wearing when they had sat down to eat, but Gwaine was beginning to wonder if that was such a good idea. This mysterious man was paying their small band far too much attention, and on the off chance that Arthur was recognized by someone who knew that he was not supposed to be here... Gwaine didn't dwell on the prospect. "But our 'scheme' is really none of your business, and it is a quest where failure is simply not an option."

"In that case," the man said, either too stupid to recognize the none-too-subtle dismissal or simply much too stubborn, "I think you're going to want to be a little nicer to me, Prince Arthur" (a small intake of breath from all four men at the table), "because I can promise you that I am the  _only_  one here mad enough to agree to aid your quest to the Frozen Lands."

Arthur scoffed, not addressing the fact that this strange person knew who he was. "You just said that there was no man crazy enough to aid me on my venture."

"Aye, that I did," said the man, and suddenly his voice, which had been deep and gruff, began to get higher, although the same lilting accent stayed in place. "But I'm no man."

The not-man then pushed the hood away, causing all four men to stare in shock at the young woman standing before them, her jet-black hair falling in wild curls around her shoulders, piercing dark blue eyes dancing mischievously, lily-white skin contrasting with the startling blackness of her silky mane. Plump red lips curved into a smile and delicate black eyebrows raised in amusement as the men in front of her tried to process this sudden change of events.

Gwaine, not surprisingly, was the first to find his voice. "I don't know who you are or how you came to find us," he said, in awe of the fiery beauty standing like a mesmerizing specter before him, "but may I just say...  _Hello_. My name is Sir Gwaine" (Arthur kicked his shin under the table for the bold-faced lie which really wasn't all that much of a lie, after all.) " and you are most certainly the loveliest sight these eyes have seen in a long time."

The woman smirked. " _Sir_  Gwaine, huh? Sir Gwaine of where, exactly?"

"Wherever you want me to be," Gwaine said, flipping his hair in that way he knew women found irresistible.

Or,  _most_  women, as it seemed.

The woman simply gave rolled her guarded sapphire eyes and pulled the hood back over her head, the long, flowing cloak making it impossible to tell once again that she was not a creepy man but a beautiful woman with a taste for adventure other than her voice, which she hadn't deepened after revealing her true identity. "So, what do you say?" she asked Arthur. "My name is Astrid, helms-woman of the _Kala Elding_ , and I am the only person who will be able to get you safely to where you want to go. Can the great prince humble himself to sail under a woman?"

The look on Arthur's face almost made Gwaine burst out into laughter, and it only made him even more enamored with the bold and beautiful Astrid.

"No offense, but I think we will see our other options for ourselves first," Arthur said dryly.

Astrid didn't seem too put off by this admission. "Okay," she said simply. "But our crew is setting sail for the Frozen Lands at first dawn tomorrow. When you change your mind, you can find our ship on the harbor. I'll see you then."

She walked out of the pub.

"She seemed awfully sure of herself," said Lancelot, distrust filling his eyes.

Arthur growled, " _How_  did she know who I was?"

"You're not wearing your hood, Princess," Gwaine reminded him. "I'm not surprised someone recognized you."

"I don't trust her," Leon mused.

"Neither do I," Arthur concurred. He looked troubled. "But if what she said is true, and no one else will agree to sail to the Raiders' homeland, then we may have no choice to take her up on her offer if we're going to help Merlin."

"I have absolutely no qualms with that," Gwaine said truthfully.

"Of course you wouldn't," Lancelot responded. "But try to remember that we're here to rescue Merlin, not to go on romantic exploits."

Gwaine felt anger rise up in him, as it always did when anyone dared to question his devotion and loyalty to his closest friend. "Hey," he said cooly, "I'm not going to let anything get in my way of helping Merlin. I'd  _die_  to get him out of the hands of those brutes. I'm just saying that as long as we're going to be trapped on a floating wooden tub for several months, we might as well enjoy it as well as we can. After all, sitting there worrying about Merlin isn't going to change his predicament. And I'd much rather be stuck out on the ocean with a feisty goddess like that instead of a bunch of hairy, fat men that smell like rat droppings. Enjoy the view, take advantage of a situation we can't really do anything about."

"Oh gods, please stop talking," Arthur said hastily. "Let's go to the harbor, talk to other sailors. I don't like that  _she_  approached us, and knew who I was. Surely there's  _someone_  else who will agree to the trip."

* * *

When Merlin woke up the next morning, he felt slightly better than he had the night before, but he was still sick, stuffy, sore and stiff. He did, however, manage to sit up without too much trouble, though a wave of dizziness and vertigo suddenly had his head spinning precariously. To his delight, though, he was actually hungry and he didn't feel as nauseated as he had the night before. Whatever Onäm's mother had been doing to treat him was obviously working, and a lot more quickly than Merlin would have expected.

There was a bowl of what looked like lumpy porridge on the table that he had noticed last night, but Onäm's mother was nowhere to be found. Assuming she had left it for him, and actually pretty confident that he would be able to keep down his food this morning, Merlin painfully, achingly dragged himself out of the surprisingly comfortable cot. He was on his way to the table when he spotted the shaving tools and a basin of fresh water that had been set out on another table near the back of the room. Unable to do anything about the long hair at the moment, Merlin was still monumentally grateful for the chance to get rid of the ugly, itchy beard. With shaking hands, he was rather pleased with himself when he only cut himself a handful of times.

He looked at his reflection in the stilling water in the basin, and even though he was glad to be rid of the small woodland creature that had decided to take residence upon his face, the lack of beard threw into sharp relief how emaciated he'd become since his capture. He could now clearly see the sunken in hollows around his eyes and his cheeks, his cheekbones, normally prominent, jutted out so much that he almost looked like a skeleton. He could now better see the dark circles around his eyes and the stark-white color of his skin, with only a tiny blush of pale color on his cheeks, probably from fever.

He turned away slowly, not wanting to examine his pitiful appearance anymore. He briefly considered attempting to use magic to get his hair its normal length, but he didn't want to raise suspicion about how he cut his hair without hair-cutting tools, and also, he didn't actually know any grooming spells, and he would  _not_ be pleased if something went wrong and he ended up bald instead.

A part of him was nagging to try to escape and use magic while no one was here. But the same reservations that had caused him to hold back last night kept him from doing anything dangerously impulsive, and he angled for the porridge on the table instead, stomach growling impatiently.

He was able to take just one bite of the surprisingly sweet and tasty porridge before the door to the physician's chambers burst open, causing the warlock to jump in surprise. His eyes snapped up to meet the intruders, and his gut twisted uneasily. Before him were Onäm, his right-hand-man, Alrick, and another Viking that Merlin recognized but couldn't name.

"Ah, look," Alrick simpered darkly. His bare chest was still wrapped from when Merlin had broken some ribs near the beginning of the voyage, but that didn't stop him from looking any less intimidating as he leered at the weakened "prince." "Our prince is up and about, and sweet Hrefna forgot to tell us about it. Good idea to come check on him ourselves, Onäm."

Merlin stood, bracing his arms on the table, and glared at the newcomers.

"And he's being brave!" the unnamed mass of muscles crooned from Onäm's other side. "Innit precious?"

"My mother may have gall far beyond her station, but she cannot push me around," Onäm chuckled. "I take what I want when I want it."

Merlin wisely bit back a comment about how the Viking had chosen a moment when his mother (Hrefna, it seemed her name was) had _not_  been in her chambers, presumably on her rounds.

"Let's go, Prince," the giant man continued, grinning a rotten, stinking grin. "The Jarl is  _very_  excited to meet you."

Merlin did not like the sound of that.


	13. Of Jarls and Carvings and Unhappy Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own Merlin.

Until the moment Merlin laid eyes on the Jarl, he had been under the false impression that Onäm the Mighty was the ugliest man he had ever met. Unfortunately, the Jarl had the other man beaten by a long shot.

He wasn't just fat, he was bulbous, his gut spilling out over the waistline of his too-tight leather breeches. The stained wool shirt he wore did nothing to mask his grotesque figure. His face looked almost swollen, meaty, flappy jowls hanging from what might have been a strong jawline underneath, though now it was virtually impossible to tell. His eyes were pig-like and beady, such a light, icy blue that they were hard to distinguish from the whites of his eyes so that it looked, upon first glance, like his eyes were just tiny black dots in the center of his eyes. It was utterly unnerving.

The top of his head was bald, but from the sides, long grey and blonde clumps of matted, ratty hair fell over slumped shoulders. His beard was just as tangled and dirty, but it was in a braid that reached almost to his protruding naval.

He wore a thick, dark brown fur cloak, and Merlin assumed that the leader thought it might make him look regal, but it really just made him look like an overweight, extremely disturbing beaver. Well, a beaver that had lost most of its teeth and let the remaining ones rot to black and yellow little stumps, he mentally amended as the ugly beast of a man caught sight of the Vikings and their captives making their way into the enormous, crudely carved stone great hall, at the end of which he was seated on an overstuffed dining chair, fat spilling out over the sides of the chair and a disgusting sneer on his hideous face.

One of the men at his back – he wasn't sure of the name, nor did he really care – shoved him roughly between his shoulder blades. Merlin stumbled and fell roughly to his knees. They'd bound his hands behind him with course rope so he wasn't able to catch himself as he was propelled forward and to the ground with a sharp crack.

Seething, barely keeping his magic at bay, he grimaced in pain as a hand was meshed in his long hair, yanking him brutally to his feet before releasing him and forcing him to march forward again. When they finally made it to where the Jarl sat, one of the men behind him clamped both meaty hands down on Merlin's emaciated shoulders and shoved him to his knees once more. "My lord," said the man who was holding Merlin down in the kneeling position, "we done it. I present to ye the  _mighty_  Prince Arthur o' Camelot."

Merlin ground his teeth as he forced his head up to look straight into the eyes of the Jarl, power flickering in his eyes. He hoped that he looked every bit the most powerful warlock he'd been told he was as he met the gaze of the piggish brute seated before him. The confidence and lack of fear in his icy gaze must have hit some nerve in the Jarl, for after staring at him with a slightly wary look on his face for a couple of moments, the man drew back a beefy hand and smashed it brutally against Merlin's cheek, snapping his head to the side. Pain flared up Merlin's neck and face but he didn't make a sound at the uncalled for attack.

"Ye don' look me in the eyes unless I say so," the Jarl commanded, his voice like poison and his breath even more so. Merlin fought to keep from breathing too heavily: the man's breath reeked like dead fish and stale liquor.

Merlin stubbornly lifted his head and said loftily, "The prince of Camelot bows to no man, especially not one as disgusting as yourself."

It sounded like something Arthur would say, but Merlin regretted his words as the mountainous man lumbered to his feet, pungent waves of his odor stirring up the air and causing Merlin's nose to twitch. The hands on his shoulders released him right as one of the Jarl's massive hands clamped around Merlin's neck, squeezing tight and lifting him to his feet.

Merlin struggled and coughed, unable to get the smallest breath past the crushing pressure on his windpipe. Panic surged through his body, setting his nerves on fire and bringing his magic to the surface. Merlin struggled to contain his powers as he choked and kicked and clawed in vain at the hand throttling him. His vision started to go dark around the edges and white dots popped in front of his eyes. His chest was tight, too tight, and his lungs burned like they had been set on fire. Right before his vision could fade away completely, he felt himself being dragged forward until he was nose-to-nose with the Jarl. "We will see about that, l'il prince," he snarled, and Merlin was sure that if he were able to breath, the noxious breath washing over his face would have knocked him flat. "A few nights in the cells'll change yer mind." Suddenly, the pressure was released and Merlin was airborne, having been thrown back into the waiting arms of the guards who had brought him in.

As the warlock fought to gulp in every bit of precious air that he could, he felt himself being dragged out of the hall but could do nothing to stop the events that were spiraling so quickly downhill. For a brief moment as he was hauled away, he let absolute desperation settle down on his soul, weighing him down. He just wanted to go home.

* * *

At first glance, Astrid's ship was small but long. The torso and head of a long-haired woman was carved meticulously into the front of the boat, and though the hair that had been dyed colored was chipped and the scantily covered upper body was covered with barnacles and worn by the waves, the depiction was hauntingly realistic. The eyes had been colored a deep amber and the lips were deep red, the skin untouched by any colors other than the dark wood of the ship.

"Who is that?" Gwaine asked, eyebrows raised as he took in the carving at the head of the boat. He glanced slyly at Astrid, who was standing on the dock, cloak pulled back so that her pursed lips and bored expression – as well as her undeniable beauty – could be seen by all. "A depiction of you, my lady, no doubt?"

Astrid rolled her eyes but didn't turn to face Gwaine. "You flatter me," she said dryly. She faced him now, eyes sparkling with a blend of emotions that her new companions could not understand. "I am no lady."

Gwaine wriggled his eyebrows a bit, leaned in closer to Astrid's face and breathed, "Forgive me, but I can attest with one single glance that you most certainly  _are_  a lady."

Astrid scoffed and turned to Arthur, who was standing off to the side with Lancelot, alternating between glancing distrustfully at Astrid and glaring apprehensively at her ship. "I would appreciate it if you would call off your...  _charming_  friend," she told Arthur haughtily. "If you want to avoid confrontation. I can assure you that my crew is very loyal and very protective of their leader, and they will not take kindly to a scruffy dry-grounder's woeful attempts to woo me." She flipped her gaze back to Gwaine. "And I can assure you, they  _won't_  work." She spun on her heel and began sauntering pointedly toward the boat, the three men staring at her incredulously.

Gwaine turned to Arthur with a roguish grin on his face, "I  _do_ like a challenge..."

Lancelot groaned while Arthur gave Gwaine his most princely "thou-shalt-obey-me" look and ordered, "I forbid you to go anywhere near that woman with any intention other than that of necessity. After Merlin has been safely recovered, feel free to risk your neck all you wish in a fruitless pursuit, but right now, we don't need any fights, any distractions, anything at all keeping us from our true goal: Merlin."

Gwaine hesitated for only a second before nodding seriously, hazel eyes uncharacteristically solemn as he thought about Merlin's plight. "I  _will_  get through to her afterwards, though... No one can resist my charm."

Arthur smiled smugly at the long-haired man. "Guinevere did."

Lancelot's mouth fell open, and he opted to speak for the first time since the conversation had begun. "You tried to woo Guinevere?"

Arthur shot Lancelot a strange look at the man's obvious discomfort at this knowledge. "And he failed." He tried not to remember when Gwen had kissed the man on the cheek before he'd left Camelot. How was it that of all the kingdom, he had fallen in love with the one servant who had caught the attention of nearly every man who entered the city?

"No, I just knew she was taken," Gwaine tried to defend himself.

"Since when has that stopped you?" Lancelot shot back. He had heard about many of Gwaine's romantic exploits on their journey.

"I am a man of  _honor_!" Gwaine protested.

"Here we go again," Arthur muttered, lifting his eyes to the heavens, trying to decide if he should engage this newest tiff between the two men in order to delay stepping foot onto the ship, whose sails were unnaturally still due to the lack wind. Before he could make his decision, Astrid's face appeared over the side of the boat and she called down, "Are you landlubbers coming, or have you changed your minds?"

Taking a deep breath, trying not to think about the unknown territory that he was about to venture into for the sake of a servant – no, a  _friend_ , he supposed, though Merlin would never hear him say that. He called back, "We're coming. Lancelot, Gwaine, we should board."

Lancelot paled a bit. "Now?"

Gwaine looked equally nervous. "What about supplies? We should gather them first."

"Already on board," Astrid called back. "Are you scared?"

Her lilting taunt was enough to still the uncertainty of the three men and within minutes, they had boarded the ship.

Before the morning was over, they would set out.

* * *

Kol was summoned by his uncle, a squat, huge chested Viking named Calder who had been an active participant in their clan's latest feat, and of whom Kol was rightfully fearful. Calder was the one who had granted his nephew the "opportunity" to become an apprentice. Kol secretly resented him for it.

His uncle had once yanked him aside and told him that the name _Calder_  literally meant "cold and harsh waters." Kol hadn't been sure if Calder had meant it as a threat, but the look in his frothing icy eyes had been enough to make Kol shiver in fear. "When yeh are out there in the waters, yeh're representin' me an' our fam'ly," he'd slurred drunkenly, meaty hand gripping his twelve-year-old nephew on the bony shoulder far too tightly. "Yeh need ter remember where yeh come from, yer fam'ly's leg'cy. 'Member my name, be ruthless. Make meh proud... If not..." He'd trailed off, then slammed an enormous hand into Kol's gut as a warning. "'Member what I did for yeh, boy. Where yeh was b'fore."

Usually when Kol was summoned by his uncle, it meant that a beating was in store. And Kol feared Calder's punishments almost as much as Onäm's.

Kol knocked loudly on the crude wooden door to his uncle's chambers, trying to still the slight trembling in his arms. It wasn't fear that caused him to shake, but exhaustion, as he had been slaving away in the kitchens since their return to the village three days ago. And he was still ill, his head dizzy and limbs shaky. None of that would mean anything but weakness to his uncle, however, so he did his best to steady his hands.

"Enter," Calder said importantly, and Kol did as he was ordered.

He dipped his head as he stepped over the threshold into the large but bare chambers. A great white bear's skins and fur, stuffed head and sewn-up eyes making Kol uneasy. The paws were almost bigger than his head. He couldn't imagine encountering one in the wild, a live one with paws and long, thick claws and teeth that could rip him apart in moments. He barely withheld a shudder at the thought, moving forward to where his uncle was sitting on a stool behind a small, rough table. Behind him was a fire pit and next to that his bed, just as crudely built as the table but smothered in furs and wools. The fire was barely smoldering, and Kol felt no warmer than he had in the dark, cold hallway. In fact, he thought that he could feel more goosebumps popping up on his skin. Like most things in the frozen lands, he was used to it, though.

Used it it, but he hated the cold.

"Uncle," he said respectfully, not even flinching when Calder stood and slowly began to amble toward him, his broad shoulders and trunk-like legs moving powerfully but slowly.

"I had no chance ter talk ter yeh about yer work on the plunder," he said slowly, his sour breath washing over his nephew's face as he stopped about a foot away from Kol. He smelled strongly of ale and his eyes were glazed. This didn't bode well for Kol's wellbeing at all.

"Well, you were busy with the crew and the prisoner—" Kol began, head bowed.

"SILENCE!" Calder roared, then blinked a few times as if he'd just remembered something important that he'd long forgotten. "Ah... the Jarl was told by Onäm 'bout yer hard work in catchin' and then tendin' to the prince... an' he was impressed."

Kol blinked. This wasn't what he had expected at all. "With  _me?_ "

Calder looked to be on the verge of losing his temper again, but restrained himself, only cracking his large knuckles as he clenched his hands tightly. "Since Onäm'll be busy plannin' our next voyage an' workin' ter getting' our ransom, he has no time to babysit prisoners, even one so precious as our prince. So the Jarl's put the boy under yer charge. And my charge."

Kol's eyes widened. "My charge?"

"Yer ter make sure he stays alive, nothin' more. Yer also responsible fer tellin' me of any problems yer have with the prince. I'm in charge of punishment. Yer to tell me if he does anythin' wrong and I'll deal with it."

Kol swallowed heavily at the thought of his uncle's punishment.

"Yes, uncle."

"And yer also ter take him to the work yard a couple'o ev'nings a week. Jarl said one more mouth ter feed without any weight pullin' can't be allowed. He'll pull his weight, prince or no."

Kol opened his mouth instinctively to argue. Merlin would never survive in the work yard, even if he were in good health. Kol himself had only been assigned to the yard a handful of times, and he had thought he was going to die of cold and pain and exhaustion. He thought about the arguments he could use. What if the strain killed him and they lost their leverage? What if he went mad like some of the others? What if King Uther discovered how he'd been treated and sought revenge on their village? What if, what if, what if...

But in the end, Kol glanced at the enormous hands of his uncle and his courage withered as he imagined those sausage-sized fingers wrapping tightly around his throat and locking there, squeezing the air out of him until his chest burst. So instead, he dropped his gaze to the floor and murmured, "Of course, uncle."

"This is a great honor, m'boy," Calder boasted. "Yer well on yer way ter livin' up ter what yeh should be. Yer mother'd be proud yeh'd be chosen ter see after such a great pris'ner."

Despite feeling distinctly ill at his uncles words, Kol nodded once more and took his leave, desperation and helplessness weighing down on him like a pile of rocks on his chest. He thought about when Merlin had suggested he escape this life with his family and flee to Camelot, where they would be safe.

But how could he be safe there, with a tyrant king who was no better than their own Jarl.

No, he would resign himself to his newest duty. It would be his honor.

Maybe he could even help Merlin out a bit, sneak a bit of extra food on the plate, help him avoid confrontations with the Jarl or Onäm or Calder. Extra blankets, that sort of thing.

But he knew in the end, it would be completely pointless. It seemed that no matter what the outcome, Merlin, in the end, was doomed. That shouldn't have bothered Kol as much as it did, but he couldn't help the worry he felt for the "prince" and his unlikeliness of survival.

He made his way toward the dark dungeons in order to pay a visit to his charge. On his way there, he did his very best to try not to think, but it was hard. And the worst part was, even with all of the thinking that he didn't want to do, he still couldn't think of a single way that Merlin would get out of this with his mind intact, let alone with his life. And that made Kol think about how he wasn't going to get out of his own situation, either, which only blackened his mood further.

The future was grim indeed, and anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.

There were no such things as happy endings.


	14. And Time Passes By

Merlin was cold.

It wasn't the kind of cold that coated your skin and made you shiver. It wasn't even the kind of cold that felt like you had just plunged face-first into an icy river. It was the kind of cold that bit deep into your skin, to your very core, the kind of cold that was so cold it was hot, and the cold burned your flesh and it froze your insides, clutching your raggedly beating heart, making you beg for death.

He wasn't sure how long he had been in the Frozen Lands. Sometimes it felt like weeks, sometimes, years.

Shortly after he had been dragged out of the Jarl's "throne room" all that time ago, Merlin had been thrown into a dark and dank cell in the dungeon. The only light came from a window high above Merlin's head, and the lone candle that flickered on the crudely hewn, heavy wooden table outside his cell. A guard had been stationed on the other side of the bars at all times.

Merlin had come to the realization quickly that if he wanted to survive this torment, he was going to have to use his magic. He was terrified of his captor's discovering it, because not only would it give away that he was  _not_ who they thought he was, but it would also give them a new tool, or a plaything, or someone on whom to take out their wrath… or whatever exactly it was that these Vikings did with sorcerers. He hadn't seen any evidence of magic within the little bit of the fortress's walls, but that didn't mean that there was no magic here. He just didn't know.

If Merlin had felt confident in his ability to take down an entire hoard of raiders and escape into the snow, he would have done it in an instant, consequences be damned. After all, if it was a choice between freezing to death out there, alone but free, and freezing to death here, surrounded by enemies, slowly and painfully, he'd choose the former in a heartbeat. But it wasn't that simple. Even Merlin's cold-muddled, illness-plagued mind had figured that bit out fairly quickly.

Even healthy and at his most powerful, Merlin would be hard-pressed to take down an entire community of enormous, bloodthirsty Vikings. But now, sick and frozen, with all-consuming lethargy slowly taking over not only his body but his mind? With the cold numbing his thoughts and freezing his blood in his veins? When he barely had the strength to stand without someone supporting – or dragging – him? He would be condemning himself to a worse fate than freezing to death in this hellhole, especially if they learned about his magic. He didn't know exactly what they'd do to him once they'd manage to subdue him, but it wouldn't be good.

The only bright side of his current predicament (and even that bright side was just a fleck of warmth in the endless cold) was that Kol had apparently been given "babysitting" duties. The young man had done all that he could to make Merlin more comfortable, and though it didn't make too much of a difference, it meant the world in the long run. If it hadn't been for Kol's bi-daily visits to the dungeons to check and see if the "prince" was still alive, and to administer medicine and give food if the Vikings had decided Merlin could eat that day, Merlin thought he probably would have gone completely mad by now.

Then there was the work yard. Merlin had been dragged away by a couple of burly, thuggish guards about two times each week to  _contribute_  to the clan he was prisoner of. They couldn't afford to lodge someone, even a wee prince, in their words, for nothing in exchange. This was complete and utter nonsense, as evidenced by the extravagant meals Merlin had caught whiff of. This was just another form of torture.

Merlin decided after his first day in the yard that he would prefer to be strung up to the agony of working in the yard. This was also when Merlin came to the decision that if he was going to survive this at all, he'd have to use his magic, he'd have to risk in in some way, no matter how small, if he were going to survive.

He had been forced to help the work yard slaves haul giant ice blocks from one end of the courtyard to the other, then shatter them with a pickaxe and haul those pieces to an odd device that had to be manned constantly. The chunks and slivers of ice would be dumped into the well-like structure, and then they would crank, and crank and crank, and the ice would become water and they'd have to take that water, bucket by bucket, into the kitchens so that it could be heated and stored.

It was hell.

After his first day in the yard, Merlin's hands were so cold they were numb, the tips of his fingers blue. He was soaked to the bone, utterly frozen, still sick, and he knew he was dying. And so he used magic as subtly as he could to warm up the air around him. For a little while he was able to lie on the threadbare blanket he'd been given, his own protective bubble of heat warming him until he was too weak to keep his concentration and his magic ebbed away, retreating back inside of him.

And Merlin was still cold.

* * *

The days passed slowly. The weather was, fortunately, fair: a light breeze and bright sunshine made for easy sailing, so said the first mate. Audun son of Hagen was a slender man who was slightly shorter than Arthur, and despite his stature, lean muscles roped around his slim arms and legs. He was strong enough to climb to the top mast without any footholds, sturdy enough to hoist four barrels of supplies without straining. His skin was tanned and leathery, callouses roughening his hands and the flats of his feet – he never wore shoes on the ship. Stick-straight, light brown hair reached almost to his shoulders, and he could often be seen flipping his too-long bangs out of his umber eyes.

He was around far more than Astrid, who had locked herself into the helm the moment she and her newly acquired "landlubbers" had boarded the vessel. From what little Arthur knew of sailing, the helmsman – or woman – was essentially the one in charge of just about everything on the ship. Despite this, though, Astrid only showed herself on the top deck with the others three times in the course of three weeks. She took her meals in her cabin or in the helm, and left Audun with the task of keeping order on the ship.

Audun, despite his somewhat small size, was a force to be reckoned with. He kept the boat in tight order, bellowing commands in his rugged, heavily accented voice and threatening with anything from fetching the helms-woman to ten lashes should one of the men give him trouble.

Indeed, it seemed that Astrid was the only woman on the entire vessel. Arthur supposed that this might be why she shut herself away, but from what she had said in the pub, her first mate was very protective of her, and no one wanted to cross Audun. Nor, it seemed, Astrid, who, despite her rare appearances, seemed to inspire as much fear – or perhaps, more – than the first mate did.

Gwaine, of course, had been disappointed when Astrid had first locked herself away and failed to appear after a few hours, but he had quickly been distracted by more pressing manners: It seemed that the seemingly unstoppable man-child had one fatal weakness, and that was seasickness.

The long-haired rogue, once bound and determined to woo Helms-woman Astrid, was now spending his days either lying prostrate on his scarcely padded cot with a bucket sitting nearby, or, on the days that he felt he could handle the salty air and mistakenly thought that getting fresh air on the top deck would help him, leaning over the edge of the ship. Either way, Gwaine had been various shades of green for the duration of the first two weeks of the voyage. He'd become much thinner and sickly looking.

Lancelot, Leon, and Arthur, however, had adjusted fairly easily to the new environment, though Arthur's legs had shaken rather violently the first couple of days and Lancelot had been a bit sick for a few hours after the ship had left the port. Leon seemed to be the only one of the four who was entirely unaffected by the swaying floor and vast expanse of blue-green shimmering all around them like a great chest of emeralds and sapphires. By the fourth day of the voyage, Arthur found that he quite liked the ocean, and that under other circumstances, he might find himself thoroughly enjoying his time on the waters.

They didn't just sit around and stare at the endless blue around them, though; Audun immediately put them to work, Arthur and Lancelot on the top deck, Leon in the kitchens, and Gwaine in the laundry room. After Gwaine had managed to soil an entire basket of socks, shirts, trousers, and underthings, however, Audun had declared that Gwaine would be more of a help if he stayed in his cabin and didn't get sick on things. Arthur had initially bristled at the way that Audun had ordered him about, telling him to do the work of a  _servant_ , but Lancelot and Leon had quickly pulled him aside, narrowly avoiding what would have turned out to be a spectacular fight. "He probably doesn't even know who you are," Lancelot had whispered soothingly, his obsidian eyes calm and earnest, and, damn him, he was probably right.

Still, Arthur had argued. "Astrid did."

"That's not the type of information you go around telling your crew," Leon reasoned. "I doubt she'd even tell her first mate so that there wasn't some kind of power play. We don't even know  _how_  she knew who you are, and I think we should assume, for the time being, that Astrid is the only one who knows."

Arthur, for all the fuss he had once kicked up about people treating him specially because he was the prince, did not like the idea of being just a normal peasant on the boat, and he liked the idea of doing physical labor on the top deck even less. He told this to Leon, Lancelot, and a pale green, tottering Gwaine who had just joined them, but he knew that they were right. If they wanted to avoid conflict and delays – translated as  _if they wanted to get to Merlin as soon as possible_  – then they would need to keep their heads down and  _not_ stir up trouble, which meant doing as they were told... which meant that Arthur needed to stuff his pride and pretend to not be royalty...

Many a night Arthur lay on his hard, meagerly padded cot with aching arms and a back on fire – he was used to muscle pains from rigorous training with the knights or battles with monsters or armies, but this was a different, deeper kind of ache that came only from exerting oneself in manual labor, scrubbing floors and lifting things and pulling ropes. Arthur wondered how skinny Merlin, clumsy Merlin, helpless Merlin managed to do this kind of thing every day. And then Arthur would think about where Merlin was now, what he was going through, was he even alive...?

And Arthur would finally drop off, the creaking of the ship and the lap of the waves and the gentle rocking lulling him into an uneasy sleep, during which he would dream of terrible things that could be happening to his servant – friend – and he would wake up even more exhausted than before he slept.

* * *

It was on the fifth day of the third week that the routine on the  _Kala Elding_  deviated in the slightest. Arthur felt like he had been immersed in another world, into a life that he had never wanted but had chosen anyway, and he wanted out. But even if he had been heartless enough to resign Merlin to his death, it wasn't like Arthur could leave. They were on a ship in the middle of a seemingly endless ocean, and they had no semblance of control over their situation. They were stuck until they reached their destination.

It started out as what had become a normal day – sun bright and warm, a slight chill from the wind in the air, the hustle and bustle above and below deck, and Gwaine floundering about, moaning and retching and greener than ever. Luckily, Arthur, Leon, and Lancelot didn't have long shifts to work – only two hours on deck and in the kitchens twice a day – and it was so routine by this point that it hardly bothered Arthur that he was doing a servant's work. And that bothered him even more. He'd said just last week to Leon that he was done with being a worker on this ship. He was the bloody prince of Camelot, and Leon was a bloody knight of Camelot, and Lancelot was, well, a former bloody knight of Camelot, and they shouldn't be demeaning themselves like this!

And though Leon had looked exhausted and more haggard than Arthur could remember, more like a dogs body than a knight, he had looked Arthur square in the eyes and had said, "There's no going back now, Arthur. You know that. Remember what your cause is."

Arthur had grumbled rather petulantly, "I wish I'd thought about what sailing with a crew of bloody sailors across a blasted ocean would entail. Merlin had better be ruddy grateful for what I've done for him, the idiot."

Leon had looked at him sadly and said, "He'll be all right, Arthur."

Arthur had stalked away, angry and humiliated and hungry and cursing the Vikings who had caused this, cursing whatever villager had told them that Merlin was the prince, and cursing Merlin for getting into his head and heart and making Arthur want to rescue him...

By this point, Arthur was well and truly tired of the ocean and the boat and sailing, and if he never stepped aboard a vessel ever again, it would be too soon. Long gone was his enjoyment of the sea.

And this day was beginning just like every other since Arthur had set foot on the ship. Gwaine stayed below deck, barely keeping down his meager breakfast; Arthur and Lancelot had mostly kept to themselves as they always did, and the crew seemed all to pleased to leave the 'lubbers alone; and Leon had gone off to assist the cook (as it turned out, Leon was actually a fine cook, better than the ship's cook, at least).

But then everything changed. One moment, the sky was clear and bright. The next, it was like night. No clouds, no storm, no wind. Just darkness.

Arthur, who had been helping one of the crew – Allen, he thought – secure one of the sails, started and let go of the rope. Allen did not, and Arthur heard a grunt and a  _smack_  as the man was dragged forward into the side of the ship.

Arthur didn't bother to apologize. He knew magic when he saw it, or, in this case, when he  _didn't_  see it, and this was most certainly magic. He knew that it wasn't just him who had lost his sight, for the rest of the crew was beginning to panic, and Arthur was jostled by several people stumbling blindly around. Arthur subconsciously reached for his sword at his side, but met nothing but the fabric of his tunic. For a moment he'd forgotten that his weapon was beneath his cot in his cabin.

Someone barreled into him and trod on his foot and Arthur growled for them to watch where they were going (which they couldn't, but it made Arthur feel slightly better to yell at someone), but then the voice said, "Sire?" and the controlled unease in Leon's voice told Arthur why his knight had forgotten that he wasn't a prince but a sailor right now. "Leon, thank God. What the  _hell_  is going on here?"

He bellowed the last part, but no one answered him.

And suddenly, there was light.

And Arthur gaped, astounded and a little bit terrified, at what the light revealed: Astrid had finally come out from the helm, and she stood on the deck, bathed in the pale yellow light that was emanating from the outstretched palm of her hand. Her black hair wove through the air, eyes cold and steely, back straight and regal. Her light, which Arthur could now see was made up of what looked like thousands of tiny fireflies hovering above her palm, was bright enough to illuminate several yards around her so that Arthur could see Leon and Lancelot, both with wide eyes and reaching for weapons that weren't there. Other crew members were rushing to the light like insects to a flame, yearning to be out of the penetrating darkness. None of them looked very surprised by the sight of their leader holding impossible light in her hand.

Astrid had magic.

Well, Arthur thought, mentally kicking himself for not figuring it out sooner, that explained why the crew was so scared of her.

Arthur couldn't see anything outside of the small bubble of light, so he had no idea what kind of situation they were in or what lurked out in the darkness.

There was a grunt of pain and suddenly, from the pitch black into the light, stumbled the first mate. Audun was clutching his side, hands covered in slick blood. Deep red liquid had pooled at the edge of his lips and he mouthed soundlessly, his breath coming in great gasps as if he were drowning out of water. His eyes never left Astrid, who was staring down at him from her perch next to the helm's door, her own eyes flashing dangerously. Audun fell to the ground and didn't move. Arthur didn't know if he was dead or simply unconscious. He also didn't know who – or what – had done this, and the not-knowing sent prickles of fear that he was unaccustomed to down his spine.

Voice thick with rage and pain, Astrid stared madly into the surrounding darkness as if she were trying to will it away with just a glare and a thought (and maybe she was). She opened her mouth and let out a yell of fury. " _Show yourself!_ " she shrieked, her magic light pulsing a myriad of angry colors and growing brighter and brighter, stronger and stronger, until with a giant wave of blinding colors, it swept away the darkness like dirt from under a rug.

And there stood, all around them, gathered like rats around a block of cheese, were at least ten people, their eyes fading from gold and glaring murderously at the magical woman who had dared to oppose them.

Then two of the men parted and a man dressed in black breeches and a deep purple tunic stepped forward, his buckled boots clicking against the wood with each step. "I am Vidar," came a silky voice from deep within the cowl of the cloak he wore over his shoulders. "I am the master of these waters, and  _you_  are going to pay for that."

His eyes wandered the crew of the ship he had boarded and when they landed on Arthur, two impossibly thin eyebrows widened. "Oh, but," he said, his oily voice now almost a purr, "I didn't realize that I would be in the presence of  _royalty._ " Arthur felt all eyes on him, heard the murmuring of the crew around him. He didn't care.

"Leave these people alone," Arthur said authoritatively, sounding and feeling more like the crowned prince of Camelot than he had done in many, many days. "They have done you no harm."

"Oh, and that should mean something to me?" the man said contemptuously. "I think not." He reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing wavy shoulder-length sand-colored hair, a sallow, arrogant face, and cold black eyes that stared at Arthur for a moment before flickering back to Astrid, who seemed to have been carved from stone, anger tensing every muscle in her body, fear for her crew preventing her from striking out – yet. But Arthur could see it in her eyes. A fight, and a magical one at that, was imminent.

"So tell me, Prince Arthur," the man said, and the hushed, terrified, amazed whispers began anew. "What brings you so far from Camelot? And with alittle  _witch_ , no less?" When Arthur didn't respond, Vidar looked around at everyone he and his men had surrounded, then spoke to his fellow sorcerers. "Go below deck and kill anyone you meet." Arthur's heart rammed against his chest as he thought of Gwaine, ailing and helpless in his cabin. "We don't want to be interrupted, do we? A petty sorceress and a would-be king… now this is a plunder that I couldn't  _possibly_ pass up."


	15. When Hell Freezes Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally slinking back to you with my proverbial tail between my legs, puppy-dog eyes and all, to apologize for the atrocious wait you've had for this chapter. In my defense, I've had a lot going on these last few years - about a year of on-and-off various illnesses, on top of my Master's program, and then getting married and moving, and then ANOTHER bout of sickness that's still plaguing me... but things are starting to settle now. FINALLY. I'm now teaching English at a local college, and I have more free time on my hands than with my previous job... so that has allowed me the time to write.
> 
> All that to say, I hope you all haven't abandoned me yet... I am SO SORRY for the wait. I hope this chapter was worth it. I'm back into writing full-force now (don't believe me? check my recent uploads!), so the wait shouldn't be long for the next chapter... I've got the story roughly planned out to the end now... I'm guessing maybe six more chapters. Hope you'll stay tuned. Please review, and enjoy!

Arthur stood where he was, muscles tensed, heart hammering, ready for a fight that he was sure to lose. Several of the sorcerers who had boarded the _Kala Elding_ had already gone below deck to slaughter anyone down there. Audun lay in the middle of the circle of the remaining sorcerers, a pool of blood spreading from underneath his prone body. Glancing around, Arthur noticed that a man a few feet to the left of him was holding a bloody sword.

Astrid stood like she was made of stone, completely still, the magical orb of flickering lights still hovering above her outstretched palm. "If you value your lives," she said in a dangerous, ice-cold tone, "you'll leave now. You've just injured someone very dear to me, and I can assure you that it's not a safe place to stand. Now _go._ "

Magic or not, Arthur found that he admired Astrid for her bravery, but he couldn't see how one sorceress was going to stand against the sorcerer Vidar and his ten men, even if four were currently below deck.

Apparently Vidar and his men were thinking along the same lines, for a ripple of dark chuckles made its way around the circle surrounding them. Arthur exchanged a weary glance with Lancelot and then Leon, who looked equally out of their depth. The rest of the _Kala Elding_ 's crew seemed to be hovering somewhere between terrified and angry.

"The pretty little witch has spunk, does she not?" Vidar said to no one in particular, a slick, greasy oil oozing from his tone and words. "I may just keep her."

Astrid's blue eyes narrowed dangerously. They flashed gold. Vidar, preoccupied by his own sick little fantasies, flew back several feet and crashed into the side of the ship with a grunt of surprise. He lay in a heap, unmoving. Chaos immediately exploded, with his men roaring to his defense.

Astrid defended against them as best she could, but even though many of their spells seemed weak – possibly the lot of them weren't terribly powerful magicians and relied on the strength of their leader to protect them – she was quickly and obviously tiring at the effort she expended. She managed to sent a bolt of what looked like tongues of white flames into one man's chest, which dropped him where he stood, smoking. Another sorcerer she made the deck beneath his feet like quicksand: He sunk until he was immersed up to his neck and then the deck hardened again, leaving him stuck. She fired a blast of flame at another man, who blocked it just in time and sent a thin, black bolt of lightning at her heart. She created a shield, but the bolt broke through and she dove to the side just in time for it to miss her heart. Astrid still cried out in pain as the jagged black energy came into contact with her shoulder.

Arthur watched all this, almost as if mesmerized by the magical display, momentarily safe because the fire was concentrated between the magic wielders, but Astrid's strangled yell brought him back to reality. "Leon, Lancelot!" he yelled over the roar of spells being cast and the cries of pain and rage. "Try to help Astrid!"

Without waiting to see if they followed his orders, Arthur spun on his heel and raced to the other end of the ship, through a throng of sea men who were scrambling to get away from the dangerous magical battle. Vidar was still slumped against the edge of the deck, but he was stirring. Heart beating like the frenzied drums of war, wondering what exactly had possessed him to approach and attempt to subdue a sorcerer all by himself – without a weapon, no less – Arthur raced the last few steps to the disoriented leader, and nearly tripped over the body of one of the fallen sorcerers. A bloody sword lay on the ground beside him, the hilt just inches from his cold, limp fingers. Arthur scooped up the red-stained blade as he continued on to meet Vidar. He felt much more confident now that he had a weapon.

Vidar was on his feet now, looking steadier by the moment. Arthur watched as his top lip curled angrily and his attention was drawn to the fight. Realizing that the sorcerer was distracted, Arthur charged forward as silently as he could in his heavy boots on the ship's wooden deck. The clamor of the magical battle, mixed with the yells of the crew and the screech of clashing metal rang around him. Arthur bolted the last few steps between himself and the sorcerer, and, hardly believing his luck – because things were never this easy – he managed to grab the sorcerer, who had just hurled a blast of green light in Astrid's general direction. Within seconds, Arthur's newly acquired, red-stained sword was pressed against Vidar's throat.

"Call off your men," Arthur ordered, voice hard and cold.

Vidar didn't call off his men, but he didn't throw Arthur overboard with his magic either, so Arthur took that as a good sign. When he started chuckling darkly, however, Arthur began to second guess his idea of "a good sign".

"I am a sorcerer," Vidar said as the fight raged on around them. To his right, someone screamed, and then there was a splash. Arthur hoped it was one of the bad guys, but he couldn't afford to take his eyes off of Vidar, even for a second. He could hardly afford to _blink._ Vidar continued, "Do you really think a mere sword will be enough to stop me?"

If Arthur were honest with himself, he'd probably answer no and then re-evaluate his current plan and quite possibly his sanity. As it was, he maintained his steely facial expression and his air of unmovable confidence, digging the edge of the blade marginally into the other man's neck. "Yes, you have magic," Arthur replied, voice steady and calm – deadly. "But, I wonder, how fast can you work it? The moment a spell starts to come out of your mouth, I will have cut your throat. I'm the prince of Camelot. I'm the champion of every tournament I've competed in. I have faced dragons and sorcerers and all manner of magical beasts – and I prevailed. So do not make the mistake of assuming I couldn't slice your throat open before you can get out your spell."

Vidar didn't respond for a moment. They stood face-to-face, prince and sorcerer, Arthur's sword digging into Vidar's neck. They stared one another down for a long moment: a challenge. Finally, Vidar spoke, and the second he opened his mouth, Arthur dug the blade a little deeper. But Vidar merely called out, "Men! Stop the attack!"

Arthur gave a feral grin. "Smarter than you look."

Vidar simply stared at him, until without warning, his eyes flashed gold and Arthur found himself flying across the deck towards the mast. He hit the deck hard, and lay there, stunned. White hot pain made black spots dance in front of his eyes. He wasn't sure where the pain was coming from, exactly; it was the kind of pain that radiated all over. Arthur blearily heard Leon yelling his name, but was too busy trying to catch his breath to respond. There was fighting going on all around him; he could hear the clashing of swords, the screaming of spells, and occasionally the squelch of a sword in flesh and a subsequent death rattle. _Splash!_ A body fell – or was thrown into the sea somewhere behind him, and the fighting continued. He just hoped none of his men had fallen, that none of his friends had gone overboard.

* * *

As it happened, it _was_ one of Arthur's friends who went overboard, but it was entirely of his own volition. Of course, he wasn't running – or swimming – away to save himself. But he was meant to be dead, it seemed, if the strange men with wicked swords that came below deck, slaughtering any they came upon were of any consequence. They'd almost had him, too. Sword raised above an ugly, brutish head, swinging down as he dodged and rolled, one step forward and _schleeeep_ – the assailant had slipped up on a rather disgusting puddle of sea-sick and fell backwards, smacking his head on the deck.

It hadn't been Gwaine's proudest moment, to be saved by his own sick, but it was better than being dead, at any rate, especially when Merlin was counting on him.

Gwaine had steeled himself for an unpleasant affair as he stood on wobbly legs and forced down the bile that rose in his throat at the swaying of the sea. Gods, all he'd wanted to do then was curl into a ball, but he couldn't afford that. So he'd snatched the sword from the floor beside the unconscious attacker and held his breath as he fought off the other men who had been laying waste to the lower deck of the _Kala Elding_. Surprisingly, it helped stave off the sea-sickness. Holding his breath while engaged in a lively sword battle in the belly of a ship may not have been the wisest course of action, but when the last man fell to Gwaine's newly acquired sword and Gwaine heaved out an explosive breath, he had to admit, the nausea had faded somewhat. Maybe the light-headedness was just masking it, but he couldn't really be bothered to care right now.

The closer he got to the top of the stairs, the more clearly he could hear the action. There was a battle going on up there, that was for sure. Gwaine wanted to barrel into it headfirst, no questions asked, but then he saw that despite the fact that several of the men attacking were wielding magic, the crew of the _Kala Elding_ seemed to be faring rather well. Gwaine watched for a moment as Leon parried a thrust from a blackened war-axe with a twisted blade. Lancelot was dodging a barrage of spells while simultaneously fighting off what seemed to be a rather expert swordsman. Not bad, Gwaine had to admit. Conversely, Arthur was lying on the ground, looking winded from some attack. Gwaine started to climb onto the deck to help him, but then his attention as dragged away as he saw, on the opposite side of the ship, Astrid attacking another man… with _magic_. Gwaine only took a moment to gawk at this new revelation before coming to a hasty, probably poorly-conceived plan when he looked past the battle and saw the other ship… the other _empty_ ship, anchored next to the _Kala Elding_.

A mad plan formed, and Gwaine slipped up from below deck, silently skirting past the battle that was too engrossed in itself to take any notice of one little outlier, and he swan-dived over the side of the boat and into the ice-cold sea.

And if he didn't so much _swan-dive_ as he did, possibly, _trip and fall headfirst over the side_ , no one was paying him enough attention to catch his little stumble.

And Gwaine struck out for the other ship.

* * *

Arthur was just managing to heave himself up to lean on his elbows when a boot landed on his chest, forcing him back to the ground. Arthur hissed; it seemed that some of the pain, at least, originated from his ribs, which were now being pressed by Vidar's bloodstained black boots. The sorcerer smirked. "And you, Arthur Pendragon, are much, much more idiotic than you look."

Arthur tried to throw the man off of him, but with his ribs bruised, maybe even cracked, he couldn't get the leverage, and he lay back, grunting from pain and exertion. "Go to hell," he spat.

Vidar chuckled. "You know, it's funny, Prince Arthur," he almost purred. "I must say, I'm quite surprised to see you on this vessel."

"Why?" Arthur snarled, maintaining eye contact with his tormenter although he wanted nothing more than to look around and try to gauge how the battle was going. He could still hear the screeching sound of metal against metal, and the occasional spell and blast of light, but Arthur was a warrior, and he knew the nuances of battle as well as he knew himself… the tides were turning. The problem was, in his position, he couldn't tell _which way_ they were turning.

"Well, I've just returned from the north – do you know, my good friend is a housecarl to a Jarl in the Frozen Lands." A sick feeling oozed its way uncomfortably into Arthur's stomach. He didn't like where this was going, at all. He swallowed thickly despite the dryness in his mouth, and did not react to Vidar's revelation. "He told me, in great confidence, of course, that the Jarl's house is playing host to a very special guest… but here you are, on a ship, apparently sailing _to_ the place you're supposed to be a prisoner?" His feral grin caused chills to creep down Arthur's spine; he felt the blood drain from his face. "So tell me, oh noble Prince Arthur… what poor peasant did you throw to the dogs to save yourself?"

Oh, gods.

"Did you say anything?" Arthur hissed, twisting his body suddenly so that Vidar's balance was thrown off. Quick and swift and deadly as a serpent, Arthur pulled a dagger out of his boot and jumped on the sorcerer, holding the blade to his throat. " _Did you tell them it wasn't me_?"

Vidar smiled.

* * *

Merlin was done. Absolutely, entirely, unequivocally _done_.

At this point, he couldn't even remember what had held him back for so long. He was bloody _Emrys_ for crying out loud! He was some supposedly all-powerful sorcerer, and he lay here in a frozen prison, watching his breath mist in the stale winter air, starving and beaten. And why?

Well, at first, he reasoned, there had been the matter of being stuck on a boat. And then his injuries had been severe and had to be treated… but what was holding him back _now_?

The rational part of his brain reminded him that he was in the middle of nowhere, and that although the prison was cold and uncomfortable, outside the village's walls was a veritably frozen wasteland, a limitless stretch of screaming wind and slashing snow, of dangerous, icy mountains and a frozen ocean on all sides. He knew that he had a better chance of survival waiting it out in the dungeons of this hellhole. He was well aware that he would most likely be dead within hours of escaping into the blizzard that was the Frozen Lands. He figured his magic wasn't so weak from wall he'd been through that he couldn't escape the cell, the prison, the city, even. But he would never escape death out there.

But what of here? He reasoned against himself. Here, he would either slowly waste away or be killed as soon as the Vikings realized that he wasn't who they thought he was. Even if they didn't kill him, he wasn't going to stay here, a prisoner or slave, for the rest of his life. He couldn't assume Arthur would be coming to rescue him this time. It was just too much to ask, and Merlin understood. Merlin just hoped that the prince would survive on his own, without Merlin to protect him.

He just barely contained a slightly manic giggle at the mere thought of escaping after all these torturous months.

He'd recently decided that hell would freeze over before he found any semblance of hope again. But now he realized that hell _had_ already frozen over, if his current conditions were anything to go by, so what was stopping him from unleashing his power on his tormentors, making a daring escape, and then freezing to death in the wilderness? That last bit was a bit of a downer, but it would be on his own terms, at least. Not a prisoner.

But something was still nagging at him. What was stopping him from making his grand escape, even if it was only into the claws of death?

And then it hit him. A skinny, un-Viking, strangely kind and friendly, the only friend Merlin had known in months. Kol. If Merlin escaped, Kol would surely take the brunt of the punishment. And Merlin couldn't in good conscious escape _with_ the boy, because this was his home, despite what a horrid place it was, and he didn't want to drag Kol along with him to die.

But he couldn't stay.

No, he finally decided. No more. If he was going to die, he was going to die _free_ and as himself. He would escape, and he would die, he knew, but he sure as hell wasn't going to go out without a fight.

He would just have to figure out what to do about Kol before he made his move, which meant waiting a little longer and thinking a little more strategically before making his escape… but it was worth it, for the one person who had showed him kindness during his months in a frozen-over hell. For a friend.


	16. The Pirates Get Pirated

In Camelot, Uther Pendragon's search for his son had become a frenzied dance that toed the line between rational and irrational. Knights were constantly leaving from and returning to the citadel in shifts; there was never a loss for someone searching.

Arthur had been gone for more than a fortnight. The ransom note had been given to the king, but they had heard no other word from the bandits who had stolen the prince. Most of Camelot assumed Arthur to be dead.

It was even worse than the frantic search for Morgana when she had been taken by the witch.

Only two people in the whole citadel did not fear for the prince. Gaius knew where Arthur had gone, and what he was doing.

Gwen didn't know where he was or what he was doing, but she did know who he was with.

She'd seen a glimpse of the ransom note in Gaius's chambers when the king had shown it tremulously to the physician. Gwen had had to stifle a gasp, because she knew that handwriting, graceful and gentle like the man whose hand penned it. She'd received letters from him in the past; she'd written a few back in return.

Somehow, Arthur and Leon were with Lancelot, and Gwen could only hope that this meant that wherever they were, and whatever they were doing, they'd come back alive and unharmed – and maybe, just maybe, they'd bring Merlin back with them.

* * *

Despite what most people thought – what he _allowed_ most people to think – Gwaine was actually quite intelligent, which could come in handy from time to time. He wasn't a great strategist like Arthur, and he didn't hold that quiet, brilliant consideration that he sometimes saw in Merlin when the servant let his guard down and said something unfathomably wise. But Gwaine was a fast thinker, able to come up with spur-of-the-moment plans to get out of scrapes – and by the gods, he'd been in his fair share of those. He often said he had the luck of the devil – true – but he probably wouldn't be alive today if he wasn't able to think on his feet, at least a little.

But just because he could think on his feet, it didn't mean that all his plans were brilliant – and this particular plan had so many holes that were it a ship, it would be a the bottom of the ocean. The most obvious problem was the fact that his friends were on the other boat, locked in a furious battle; how were they going to safely board this other ship without being followed by the pirates? Not to mention, Gwaine was going to have to hold it together (or, in the case of his sea-sickness, _in_ ) long enough to make it to that part of the plan. Then, of course, there was the little matter of his have no idea how any part of a ship worked, and it was a fair assumption that the others in his party had little experience with this as well – which meant they would have to get the rest of the crew on board, which meant getting them past the pirates.

Gwaine was shivering so violently and his hands were so numb that he could barely maintain his grip as he climbed up the rope ladder at the back of the pirate's ship. He flopped onto the deck, chest heaving in exertion, stomach attacking itself, and he wanted to do nothing but succumb to the exhaustion. Nonetheless, he clawed his way to his feet. There was too much at stake for him to give in now. He thought grimly about what was ultimately at stake here, at what they stood to lose if they lost this battle. Who knew what had happened to Merlin already; there was no telling what kind of shape he would be in when they found him. But if they never made it to the servant, or if they were delayed too much and didn't make it in time? Gwaine shuddered to think what would happen to his best friend if those bastards who had taken him found out he wasn't the prince they'd supposed him to be.

Gwaine stood shivering in a puddle of freezing sea water, casting his gaze around the ship to find something – _anything_ – that might be of use to him as he formulated the next part of his plan. How was he supposed to stop the fight, get the others over to this ship, and sail away without the pirates following?

His eyes lit on a small but deadly catapult mounted on the side of the ship that was facing the _Kala Elding_. It was held taut with a length of rope, but the moment the rope was slashed and the tension released, the enormous rock it held would go flying, a deadly weapon, toward the ship. Toward Astrid's ship. On which his friends were fighting with the pirates, and hurting them was a distinct possibility if he didn't do this exactly right…

But Gwaine didn't see any other recourse. To get to Merlin, they had to get away from the pirates, and to do that, Gwaine had to sink the ship.

Astrid was going to be _pissed_.

Gwaine took hold of the catapult, happy to discover that it was mounted to the ship in such a way that it could swivel back and forth, which made aiming away from his friends that much easier. With grim concentration, and the knowledge that his friends' lives were now in his hands, Gwaine aimed the catapult at the mast and slashed the rope with the sword he'd taken off his attacker on the _Kala Elding_. It was as if the world was underwater in that moment – Gwaine heard nothing, saw nothing other than the deadly arc of the boulder as it hurtled toward the ship – and then, with an almighty _crack_ , the _Kala Elding_ 's mast buckled in half, splinters the length of Gwaine's arm flying in all directions.

* * *

Vidar never got a chance to answer Arthur's question past that sinister smile. He was rudely interrupted by the mast exploding.

And, of course, the top half of the mast had to fall down right where Arthur was grappling with Vidar. That was just the prince's luck. Well, almost.

Oddly enough, Arthur was used to his luck, while being rather poor sometimes, always sorting itself out in the end. He couldn't count the number of times that he had been in an impossible situation, opponents coming at him on all sides, and somehow come out relatively intact – a bandit somehow managing to impale himself on his own sword, or a tree branch falling on a mercenary's head at a critical moment, that sort of thing. Arthur wasn't surprised in the slightest that the mast was hurtling towards him – but he was somewhat dismayed to discover that it wasn't inexplicably changing direction because of a freak gust of wind.

It became obvious fairly quickly that his miraculously strange luck wasn't going to hold out this time. If Arthur didn't do something in the next couple of seconds, both he and Vidar were going to be crushed beneath the towering trunk of wood, and while the prince didn't half care if the pirate were killed – he'd prefer it, actually; it would make things much easier for all of them – he himself didn't fancy dying, especially on a ship in this godforsaken ice bath, and by the mast of a boat he'd never even liked.

Plus, he still had to save Merlin, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like _dying_ get in his way.

With speed and precision that belied years of training and experience as a warrior and tactician, Arthur dove to the side. The dagger, still clutched in his hand, cut a shallow red line into the pirate's neck as Arthur moved, but Vidar's narrow escape from death was short lived. The mast careened down and crashed mightily onto the deck mere seconds after Arthur rolled off of him. Unfortunately for Vidar, he was sandwiched directly between the deck and the fallen mast. He was killed on impact, swallowed up by rigging and sails and debris.

Arthur breathed an uneasy sigh of relief; although the death of the pirates' leader made things simpler for his quest in the long run, he hadn't gotten a definite answer out of the man. That smile spoke volumes, but exactly _what_ it spoke, Arthur wasn't sure. Did it mean that yes, he _had_ told the Vikings the truth about Merlin, or did it mean that Vidar was playing him and that's exactly what he _wanted_ Arthur to think he meant? Arthur was well aware that there was no guarantee that the sorcerer-pirate would have told him the truth even if he had had a chance to answer in full, but not having any real inkling of what could be happening to his servant – oh, what the hell, his friend; Arthur had come to the point where he recognized that he wouldn't be personally undertaking such a dangerous and lengthy rescue mission, risking his life and crown, and perhaps even more terrifying, his father's ire, for a servant alone – was maddening.

Arthur didn't have any time to reflect further as he realized the battle had stopped dead at the felling of the mast. There were yells and shouts of alarm, and people pointing to the pirates' boat. Arthur followed the pointing fingers and gaped, in both astonishment and relief – for Sir Gwaine, alive but maybe a little ill, was standing on the deck behind an empty catapult, waving merrily at him. Arthur didn't waste time trying to figure it out; instead, he took advantage of the momentary calm and bellowed out to the pirate crew, "YOUR LEADER IS DEAD!"

All of the surviving pirates whipped their heads around to see that where Vidar once was lay the mast, with sails adorning the deck where the man had fought like a funeral shroud. A buzz of fear rang through the air, chased by murmuring and whispers from the pirate crew. Arthur smiled grimly; it was as he'd figured – and hoped: Vidar was the only truly powerful sorcerer of the group. Already, two of the pirates lay dead on the deck. The rest were now looking like they would rather be anywhere else. Vidar was what held these men together; it was fear of this man, it seemed, that bound them together, and now that he was dead and their best line of defense destroyed, they were not nearly as tough as they'd once been.

That was the thing about these kinds of men, Arthur knew – bandits and pirates and sorcerers alike, those in power liked to stay in power and feel powerful and never have their power truly tested, so they surrounded themselves with people less powerful than they. This was all well and good until something happened to the leader or his power, and then those who had been loyal to power, or had been scared of it, scattered like birds during hunting season.

"You don't scare us," tried one stupid man, but Astrid threw him across the deck with a flash of golden eyes. He landed at the prince's feet, and Arthur, trying very hard to pretend that this open display of magic didn't bother him, used his dagger to pin the man by his shirt to the deck.

No one argued after that.

"We will let you live," Arthur announced, quite generously, "only if every one of you complies with our terms." He nodded toward the pirates' ship. The remaining pirates turned their heads to see Gwaine wiggling his fingers cheekily at them. Arthur smirked. "You will remain on this ship, and we will take yours. You will all go below deck while we board your ship."

Grumbles and curses began stirring the air, but Arthur was not about to lose the control he'd so gratefully wrested. "Astrid," he said calmly, dipping his head at the sorceress.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't hesitate to throw another man across the deck.

They all moved pretty quickly after that.

Once they were below deck and Arthur, Leon, and Lancelot had dragged a barrel heavy with fish overtop the hatch to prevent escape, Arthur and Astrid began coordinating the exodus to the pirates' boat.

"I can't believe I'm losing my ship to these filthy pirates," Astrid seethed as she tossed a rope ladder from the _Kala Elding_ to their newly acquired vessel.

Astrid looked over her shoulder where two of her crewmen were closing Audun's eyes – he'd been too injured; he hadn't made it through the duration of the fight. Arthur's throat tightened. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I know he was important to you."

"He was my big brother." Astrid's voice was hollow. "It wasn't enough that our youngest brother was stolen from me years ago. The gods are still punishing me for not rescuing him."

"What happened to him?" Arthur asked.

"He was kidnapped by Vikings. I couldn't save him. He was young and weak; he wouldn't have survived his first winter in the Frozen Lands. I've been tracking down the man who took him for years."

Arthur thought he understood a little more why Astrid was helping them. But he couldn't help but ask, "Did your brothers have m… _it_ … too?" He couldn't help the tint of accusation that crept into his voice.

Astrid glared so menacingly at Arthur that he was sure she was going to throw him overboard. "I'm the only one who has _magic_ ," Astrid answered stiffly as the last crewmen made their way across the ladder and she nimbly jumped up to go across herself.

Arthur went after her, and they left the _Kala Elding_ marooned in a frozen sea.

* * *

Once everyone from the _Kala Elding_ had boarded the pirates' ship, Astrid stormed over to Gwaine, who was standing near the catapult, feeling quite pleased with himself – and she slapped him, hard, across the face.

Gwaine gaped at her and pretended he didn't see Lancelot and Leon holding back laughter in the background. The princess looked too cross to be amused, but Gwaine knew how twitchy he got around magic.

"You broke my ship!" Astrid, the Divine Goddess of the Sea and Temptress of Gwaine's Heart spat. "I _loved_ that ship!" Gwaine opened his mouth to explain, but Astrid's lips were suddenly on it. Gwaine didn't respond for a moment, stunned as he was at the soft warmth and fiery passion that flooded through him in this, probably – no, definitely – one of – no, _the_ – best kiss that had ever been bestowed upon him.

And then his wits returned and the rogue's fingers twisted into her hair, and _gods_ was it soft and it smelled of sea-salt and strawberries, and her hands twined into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer. He groaned as she ended the kiss as suddenly and unexpectedly as she'd started it. And slapped him. Again.

"That was the most stupid, foolhardy plan I've ever seen," she growled. Her voice softened. "And you saved us all." She kissed him one more time, quickly, then flounced away, already shouting orders.

Gwaine turned to see Lancelot, Leon, and yes, even Arthur, bless him, staring at him, open-mouthed.

"Well, lads," Gwaine said, his grin so wide it actually hurt, "don't look so stunned. We all knew it would happen eventually." He smoothed back his hair with a hand that was still tingling from its contact with Astrid.

As if a spell had been broken, all three men clicked their mouths shut. Lancelot nodded sagely. "Yes, I suppose it was bound to happen… I just didn't think she would slap you _twice_." He and Leon had a chuckle at his expense as they wandered away. Arthur's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but he turned on his heel and strode over to join Astrid where she was supervising the raising of the anchor and sails.

Shaking his head, Gwaine swaggered over to the side of the boat just in time to be spectacularly sea-sick.

* * *

Kol looked more anxious than usual when he brought Merlin his meager dinner that night.

"We've got a problem, I think," he said, gnawing on his lower lip.

Merlin snorted. "Well, let me know when you find out for sure whether we've got a problem or not, Kol," he said, looking pointedly around the frozen dungeon, and coughing hoarsely and weakly for emphasis. "For now, I'm happy in my blissful ignorance."

It showed how much of a problem they had when Kol didn't even attempt a weak smile.

"There was a man here earlier; he didn't say anything directly, but he kind of _hinted_ that you… might, well, might not be… you know, him."

Merlin's blood ran cold(er).

This was indeed a problem.

"Who was he? How did he know?"

"I don't know; I'd never seen him before, but he had magic," Kol hissed.

Merlin's breath caught. This was even more of a problem than he'd thought. Was it someone he knew? Someone who held a grudge against him? But who?

"We've got to get you out of here, tonight," Kol plowed on. "If the Jarl finds out you're not Prince Arthur…"

Merlin rose shakily to his feet, suppressing a throaty cough. "You don't have to say it," Merlin said, feeling nauseated. "But…" His earlier hesitation rose up in him. "But what about you, Kol? I can't just leave you with them!"

Kol opened his mouth to respond, but the voice that spoke wasn't his.

It was Onäm's.

"Don't you worry about my young friend Kol, here," the terrifying Viking spat as he stalked, surprisingly silent, from the shadows. "After all, he's only confirmed our suspicions and showed us who you _really_ are."

Kol's face was deathly pale beneath his freckles. He mouthed soundlessly as a great paw of a hand thumped his shoulder gratefully.

"And who," Merlin asked, voice deadly calm despite the storm howling inside, "would that be?"

Onäm grinned a pungent, decaying grin. "Not," he answered menacingly, spewing toxic fumes over Merlin's face, "Prince Arthur. And that's all my dear friend the Jarl needs to know." He sneered. "How long did you think you could pull the wool over our eyes, boy? Thanks to young Kol here, we have everything we need to bring your false rule to a _timely_ end…"

Merlin swallowed, his throat tight and aching. "Then do it," he bluffed, pooling his magic, so long dormant, ready to strike.

The Viking reached through the bars and grasped Merlin firmly by the neck with one hand and slowly, almost tenderly, he started to squeeze. "You caused us too much unneeded trouble," he growled. "You cost us time and resources and precious air… No, boy… We're going to take our _time_ with you."

Merlin gasped for air, his tenuous grip on his magic slipping as he choked, his hands scrabbling to dislodge the terrible grip on his throat as black spots danced before his eyes…

No.

_No._

Merlin closed his eyes, gathering his strength and resolve.

They opened _gold._


	17. Let It Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the title of this chapter was unabashedly taken from Frozen. I mean, come on, we've got snow, ice, and hidden magic. Just imagine Merlin in a sparkly blue dress with an Elsa wig, and the stage is set! ;)

He was going to die.

He knew this with every fiber of his being as he stumble-hopped on frozen legs through the village gates and into the white expanse of icy desert. His numb fingers gripped weakly at the limp bundle he dragged with him. Merlin couldn't even tell by touch alone if he was still carting an unconscious Kol beside him, so much feeling had fled from his flesh, so he had to periodically glance down and check the young man was still with him.

Gods, he was going to die, and he was condemning Kol to death too just by bringing him along. But if he had escaped the dungeon and left Kol behind with Onäm's body, the boy would be facing so much worse than falling to sleep because of the cold and never waking up again.

Merlin's mind drifted back to the dungeon, where he'd finally, after months of torment, of holding in his power and waiting, waiting for Arthur or anyone to find him, released the build-up of magic inside of him. He'd tried to hold it in. By the Triple Goddess, he'd _tried_ , because as much as he despised playing the damsel in distress with the power he had brimming just beneath the surface, and despite Arthur's contrary thoughts on the matter, Merlin wasn't stupid. He'd seen the frigid wasteland surrounding the village, with the endless glaciers, miles and miles of wintery expanse that led to nowhere but into the arms of death. He may have been powerful, may have been _Emrys_ , but even Emrys couldn't thaw an entire desert of ice and snow. He couldn't create food out of nothing, couldn't heal himself of the sickness that tore through his body, burning his chest and filling his lungs. Escaping the dungeon would have been nothing more than escaping the jaws of one beast only to run straight into the maw of another, and Merlin knew he had to hold on, for Arthur, for his destiny…

But finally, he could fight the tide of his power no longer. As Onäm the mighty squeezed his mighty paw around Merlin's throat, slowly, intimately denying him the breath he so desperately needed, something inside of him snapped. _I'm sorry, Arthur; I tried to wait for you,_ he thought desperately, even as his eyes turned gold, throwing his tormentor across the dungeon, snapping his neck before he even hit the wall. Onäm was dead before his body hit the floor.

Unfortunately, although he'd managed to focus most of his energy on Onäm, Merlin hadn't quite been in control enough to avoid catching Kol in the crossfire. The boy had also been flung back, smacking his head on the stone, but he was only unconscious.

Knowing his burst of power would only get him so far, Merlin blasted the cell and dungeon doors open, somehow managing to haul a totally unresponsive Kol with him up the stairs, through the corridors, into the courtyard, and out of the village gates. Anyone who attempted to halt their escape was flung back, dead or unconscious Merlin didn't know or rightly care. A flash of gold, a guard hit a wall. Another flash, a bear's head fell from its mount on the wall and struck the Jarl's housecarl with debilitating force. And so on.

Merlin didn't know how many people he had blasted aside, thrown, or toppled. For all he knew, his escape route could have looked like a war zone. By the time he made it through the gates, his strength was fading fast, and the fire behind his eyes began to cool. He had to keep moving.

 _Why?_ a voice somewhere deep in his soul asked. It was an innocent enough question, he supposed. After all, it wasn't as if he was going to survive this. He would probably starve or freeze before the illness took him, but the end result would be the same. Merlin was simply escaping a slow and painful death at the hands of his captors in favor of a quicker and numbed death at the hand of nature itself. He could lie down here, yards from the gates, and be quickly covered by a blanket of snow in a natural burial… fall asleep beneath, feeling nothing, giving in to the inevitable…

With a start, the warlock realized that he'd sunk to his knees and was swaying where he knelt, moments away from doing just that, giving up. And even though he knew he was in an impossible situation, though he knew that he would die whether he stayed here or staggered halfway across the barren landscape, something burning inside him refused to let him give in.

And so he lurched drunkenly to his feet and stumbled blindly through the snow, Kol in his wake, deeper into the whispering folds of his eventual death.

.

Kol woke up about fifteen minutes later. Merlin had found a small cave, barely big enough for both underweight boys to pack themselves into, and, after making sure that there were no current inhabitants, he squeezed beneath the meager rock shelter, dragging Kol in with him. A small fire started with a flash of his eyes burned dimly between them, offering very little relief from the breathtaking cold outside.

Merlin was arranging Kol's gangly limbs, trying to fit the boy as comfortably as possible in the shelter, when the young Viking's eyes snapped open and locked onto Merlin's pale face and weary blue eyes. He stared almost lifelessly at the warlock for several lengthy moments before his memory caught up with him and he flinched back like he'd been struck.

Merlin sent the young man a small, sad facsimile of a smile and sat back, a series of long, harsh coughs wracking his emaciated form. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he wheezed between desperate drags for air. "I didn't mean to..."

Kol gaped at him for another second or two and then stated the obvious: "You have magic."

There was no point in denying it. Even if Kol were in a position to take action against him, it wouldn't matter for much longer. They had very limited time left. But still, after all Kol had done to help him, all he'd risked, the unlikely friendship they'd forged, Merlin was compelled to at least try to explain himself. "I was born with it," he acknowledged, his voice croaking like a ninety-year-old man. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, despite the fact that he didn't really feel very cold anymore. Distantly, he thought that that was probably a bad sign, but he was so tired he couldn't be bothered to worry about it.

"Then…" Kol trailed off, confusion kicking one red eyebrow up incredulously. "Then… why didn't you s-save yourself sooner? Escape? And… w-what were you doing in Camelot? Magic is forbidden th-there!"

The amused smirk pulled at the numb skin of Merlin's gaunt face. "Funny enough, I'm aware of the ban against magic." Another long, grating cough. "But… I have a desssstiny." He slurred more with every word he spoke, the bite in the air and the chill in his bones sapping away the ability to sync his mouth to his thoughts. "…'nd w's wait-tin' f'r Ar'hur…"

From a long, long distance away, Merlin thought that he heard an edge of panic steal into his companion's voice. "Merlin! You've got to stay awake! You have magic; do something! Save us!"

Merlin wasn't even sure if his response even left his lips, so far had he descended into that hazy, alluring warmth. "Dst'ny wassssn' righ' th-thiiiis t'me…"

And, despite the voices, both in his mind and outside in the world, yelling for him to stay awake – _if you sleep, you'll die!_ – he let his eyes flutter closed and descended into the welcome darkness.

_I'm sorry, Arthur. I tried._

* * *

"Can you make this boat go any faster?"

Astrid glared at him from behind the strands of ebony hair that played across her face. "No faster than I could the last ten times you asked me," she ground out as she manned the wheel.

They were getting close; there were more birds overhead, large white geese and small gray feather balls that wrestled bravely against the swirling winds and snow. It meant land was near. When they saw the falcon swooping gracefully toward the horizon, their hopeful suspicions were confirmed. They would be coming upon land soon. In preparation for their arrival, Lancelot and Leon were assisting Astrid's men with preparations and Gwaine was rolling about, green-faced and useless as had been the norm, below deck. Arthur had taken it upon himself to what ultimately amounted to irritating the ship into moving faster.

Unfortunately, once they landed, there was still the issue of seeking out the village where Merlin was being held – Astrid had told him that it was not far from where she predicted they would hit shore, and though her navigational skills were impressive, having to find a hostile city in unfamiliar, nearly uninhabitable, enemy territory was the opposite of appealing to the prince. Not to mention the feat of the rescue mission itself. After what Vidar had revealed to Arthur, claiming that he'd informed the Jarl of Merlin's identity, the prince couldn't even be sure that Merlin was even still alive. So while part of him welcomed the short reprieve before the hard work began, and the time on the boat to fine-tune whatever scraps of a plan they had, another part needed to move faster, to get to shore, to find Merlin, to bring him home.

He couldn't believe that after all this time – he'd lost count of how many weeks – how many months – he'd been away from Camelot, the reason for his journey was finally nearing. That nasty voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like the king's chose this moment to surface for the first time since the attack on the _Kala Elding_. _You've abandoned your home and your duties, disobeyed your father, your_ king _, and for what? All for a servant who is probably already dead?_

"No," Arthur retorted solemnly. He hadn't realized he spoken out loud until Astrid shot him an irritated glance.

"What?"

"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "Will we make it by nightfall?"

Astrid sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose with long fingers. "Even if we do – which is no guarantee if the wind doesn't start cooperating a bit more – we'll have to stay on the ship until morning. It's too dangerous to go gallivanting off into the Frozen Lands in the dark. Even I could get turned around and freeze to death, and I'm a master navigator."

Arthur shook his head, both to dislodge the voice that sounded like his father chastising him, and to protest Astrid's words. "That's not acceptable," he said, recognizing how irrational he sounded even as he spoke. "We have to start searching as soon as we land. We don't have time to wait. _Merlin_ doesn't have time."

There was silence for a few beats as Astrid regarded him with her enigmatic eyes – eyes he remembered with a pang of mixed awe and fear could turn to gold in a heartbeat – before venturing, "You intrigue me, Arthur Pendragon."

 _The feeling is mutual_ , Arthur thought, but merely raised an eyebrow and asked, "How so?"

Instead of answering his question directly, Astrid turned her attention back to the helm and said, "When I first saw you and your friends in the pub, blundering about trying to find a ship, I offered to bring you with me because I didn't understand you. The son of the magic-hater Uther Pendragon going on a covert rescue mission to save someone from Vikings? 'This man must be someone very important,' I thought to myself.

"But then I found out that you were going after a servant, and that you were in fact running from your father, who had forbidden you to go after him, I didn't understand. I still don't." She chuckled humorlessly. "You try so hard to be both the person your father wants you to be and the person that _you_ want to be. Duty and heart. It's just… interesting that you don't seem to recognize that the person you want to be is so much more admirable than the one your father wants you to be."

Arthur opened his mouth indignantly to retort, but Astrid barreled over him despite her voice softening to an almost kind level. "Is there no way to reconcile these two identities? Must you choose to be only your father's man or your own?"

Arthur's mouth opened again, then closed in indecision. He swallowed, then cleared his throat and tried again. "You're wrong," he said resolutely, though there was little conviction in his words. "I am repaying a debt to an old friend, doing what is right, but I am not struggling against what my father has taught me. I respect my father."

"Of course you do," Astrid soothed, adjusting the wheel slightly. "But you can respect your father without conforming to his every belief."

"I don't—"

"Your servant aside, you're proving your own mettle, your own strength and willingness to change, by talking to me right now. Had you fully been your father's man, through and through, you would have tried to kill me the second you saw me use magic."

"That's not—" Arthur wished she would stop talking; his pulse was hammering in his ears and her voice seemed to come from a great distance. He had to let her live; he'd needed her to get to Merlin, to stay alive!

Apparently he'd spoken aloud, or Astrid was a mind reader as well as a sorcereress, because she aptly replied, "There were other seafaring men on the boat. Not as skilled as I, but your father wouldn't have hesitated. So why did you?"

The question pounded a frenetic tattoo on the walls of Arthur's mind as his blood boiled hot in his veins and his whole understanding of reality was thrown into chaos. Astrid was right. His father wouldn't have hesitated. Would never have allowed magic to have such control over him that he let it slide because he might need it. Did that make Arthur weak? Maybe.

Or did it make him wise?

His head ached fiercely; he clutched it, trying in vain to sort out the jumbled mess in his brain. Gods, what had happened to him that he was travelling with a sorcereress and sailing into Viking territory to save a servant?

The answer came to him as quickly as the question had manifested itself. What had happened to him to change his views, to show him that sometimes things were more than what they seemed? To challenge his world views, to force him to question why he believed what he did?

The answer to that burning question was the same as the reason he had embarked upon this journey in the first place.

Merlin.

It always was Merlin, wasn't it?


	18. Yggdrasil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter I've REALLY been looking forward to, as it incorporates some elements of Norse mythology into it. I have, of course, taken a few creative liberties with these characters I introduce, but I keep their basics the same. The Nornir (or "Norns" in today's language) were a trio of divine women who lived in a well underneath the great tree at the center of the universe and held the nine worlds – including ours, Midgard – in its branches and roots. They were said to be the foremost influences on destiny in the entire universe, and they would, according to which version of the legends you read, either mold destiny by carving runes onto the World-tree Yggdrasil or by weaving a shroud or tapestry. So they're kind of like the Fates in Greek mythology. If you want more information about these truly fascinating beings, check out norse - mythology gods - and - creatures / others / the - norns/ Just delete the spaces there!
> 
> And if you find this interesting and want to delve into more mythology, consider reading my new original novella, House of the Dead by Elizabeth Wilson, that's available on Amazon and explores some of the most incredible aspects of Irish and Celtic mythology in a charming frame narrative about a little girl who climbs over a garden wall to hear stories of the fairy world. :)

He heard the voices before the rest of his senses came into focus. Ancient voices, powerful voices, harsh and kind and timeless, each syllable contradicting the next. They spoke in a strange tongue, but somehow Merlin found that he could understand what they were saying, as if they had planted the meaning directly into his mind.

_He should not be here._

_We have no choice. The boy cannot die._

_We do not interfere. We write the words and guard the tree. We do not change. We do not meddle._

_He is important. The Earth groans at his unnatural fate. Destiny has gone astray._

_We record, we predict, we divine. We do not change._

_He is Emrys, he is Magic; his destiny -_

_Destiny can be altered._

_His cannot._

Blearily, Merlin sat up, his vision slowly restoring. The first thing he noticed was that he was no longer in the cave, and Kol was nowhere to be found. Right on the tail of this discovery came the realization that he was no longer cold.

Looking around, he saw that he was in a snowy meadow; this one, however, had just a light dusting of powder over the green-gray grass, and though the sky was the color of slate, no wind or snow defiled it. In the center of the clearing stood a Tree - a Tree so vast and intricate that it was itself as much a work of art as it was an offering of nature. Merlin could feel the raw, unadulterated power, magic of the likes he had never encountered before, blossoming from the heart of the Tree itself. This magic was even more potent, more ancient, than what he felt when he was near the Great Dragon.

Wary of the untapped power weeping from every branch, every leaf, every piece of bark, he rose to surprisingly steady feet and moved closer. What he saw sent a cluster of shivers down his spine: The tree was covered, from base to branches, in runes. Having studied under Gaius, and having considerable magical ability himself, Merlin had encountered a variety of magical, obscure, even obsolete, written languages during his time in Camelot. He was by no means an expert, but he was relatively adept at recognizing several types of ancient runes. But these - he had never seen anything like the lettering carved into this magnificent tree.

He didn't have to understand the words to realize how sacred, timeless, and profoundly important the natural monolith was. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, studying without comprehension the intricate carvings, soaking in the raw power bleeding from the raised roots, but eventually, something in the silence unsettled him, and he remembered with a start what had roused him in the first place: Voices.

Though he was reluctant to turn away from his discovery, he tore his gaze from the Tree and looked behind him. What he saw, or rather, _who_ he saw, surprised him.

Standing like triplicate statues, cloaks draped over their bodies, casting mysterious shadows on their faces, stood three young women. He couldn't see much of their features because of the cloaks they wore, but the regal way they held themselves and the silky golden ringlets that glinted beneath the cowls despite the nonexistent sunlight gave him the impression that were they to lower their hoods, he would see that they were enchantingly beautiful.

They did not speak, did not move, only studied him with hidden eyes until he could bear the lingering silence no longer.

"Where am I?" he asked as confidently as he could muster. "Who ... are you?" His voice was strong and clear, a far cry from what it had been for the past several months, beset as he had been with that terrible sickness. A thought occurred to him, and he found that he was more bothered by the fact that this thought didn't bother him as much as it should have, than he was by the thought itself. "Am I dead? Is this Avalon?"

The one on the right gave a humorless chuckle that chilled made Merlin's hair stand on end. _Avalon? The Isle of the Bless'd?_ she asked, her voice echoing through his mind, similar to how the Druids communicated, but so much more powerful, so much more burdened, and wise. _Nothing so trivial, Emrys._

His breath caught in his chest. "Y-you know me?" It was difficult to keep the tremor out of his voice.

 _You have been touched by Destiny,_ the middle one said, her voice a bit kinder. _Of course we know you._

Despite the tremble that threatened to take residence in his core, Merlin took a determined step forward and asked firmly once more, "Who are you?"

The woman on the right answered first. _I am Urðr_.

 _I am Verðani_ , intoned the woman in the middle.

 _And I am Skuld,_ finished the woman on the left. _We are the Nornir, shapers of Destiny, guardians of the great ash_ _Yggdrasil, and weavers of Fate._

Merlin swallowed heavily. The names themselves meant little to him, but the implications of what they were and did weighed heavily on his chest. "I," he began slowly, "know a bit about Destiny."

Verðani chuckled. _Of course you do, Emrys. For Destiny has called you out for great and terrible things, has carved your name into the Tree, has placed the weight of kings and kingdoms upon your shoulders._

His stomach twisted; he in no way liked the sound of "great and terrible things." Then in a sudden bout of hopelessness, his current situation crashed down upon his head, making him feel, if possible, even worse. "But it doesn't matter now," he said heavily. "My destiny is forfeit if I cannot escape the Frozen Lands and return to Camelot. It is too late." A desperation the likes of which he had never even approached the shores of crashed over him like a tidal wave, sucking the breath out of his lungs and replacing it with horrible, choking futility. "I failed my destiny." A broken sob ripped out of him, the yowl of a wounded animal, as the full implications of the statement became clear to him. "Gods… I failed Arthur."

Skuld commented, _You are quick to write off your foretold Destiny, Emrys._

Suddenly angry Merlin spun to her and demanded, "What else can I do?! You see me as the subject of prophecies and destiny, as the all-powerful _Emrys_. For months, I have been addressed and abused as my master. Yet, I am neither of these powerful people, not now. I may have magic, but I also have flesh and a human heart. I am _Merlin_ , damn it, and _Merlin_ has been through hell and doesn't know what he's supposed to do now or how to fix this, and _Emrys_ cannot help any more than he has because he is _still Merlin!_ "

The fury and frustration embodying his words did not faze the Nornir. If anything, it amused them. Urðr spoke once he had calmed down, her voice still sharp and unforgiving, but with an air of understanding. She moved for the first time since he had seen them, lifting a pale arm that shone like marble to gesture at the enormous tree. _You are not the only one with the weight of Destiny on your shoulders, Emrys,_ she said softly. _Look at Yggdrasil, the World-tree. You asked where you are. You are here, in a place where Destiny is forged, at the center of the universe._

Skuld took over: _In Yggrasil's branches are housed the nine worlds – yours, Midgard, included._

Merlin's head spun. "Midgard?"

 _Your people have different names for it,_ Verðani supplied, _but it is the same._

 _We carve Destiny into the Tree,_ continued Urðr seamlessly. _We shape it, and it shapes_ you _._

 _Destiny is a fickle friend,_ Verðani mused, almost to herself. _She knows what she wants, and she tells us, and we write it here and make it so._

Speaking past the lump his throat, Merlin managed to ask, "And did you carve that I was to die here?"

 _Destiny is not concrete, even that which we transcribe on Yggrasil_ , Skuld answered vaguely. _And it is not absolute. Destiny can be changed, for time is not linear and fixed as most believe. It is cyclical, and versatile, like the seas. Your Destiny is great, but what you do and the others around you do can still actively play a role in molding it._

Heart racing in anticipation, Merlin asked, "And is there a way for me to alter what has happened to me? A way that I can survive to protect Arthur, and fulfill my ultimate destiny?"

Silence.

"My destiny," Merlin said desperately, "has been told to me many times, by Druids, by seers, by a Great Dragon himself! But… it's not just my destiny anymore, is it? It's my purpose, _my_ purpose, because I want to see him become the great king. I want to guide him, to be his friend, to help him forge Albion into the great potential I have come to see. He is my _friend_ , he is my _king,_ and it isn't just about destiny anymore. I do not do this because I _have_ to, but because I _want_ to." He softened his voice and respectfully entreated, "You said that the Destiny you shape is not final. You say it can be changed. I do not believe I was destined to die here, and if my destiny has been changed once to lead me here, then it _can_ be changed again to put me back on course." He took a deep breath, wet his lips, and sighed. "This is not about me. This is about Arthur, and the Destiny written for us, for Albion. Is there nothing you can do?"

If any of the Nornir were moved by his passion, they did not show it. They regarded him stoically, and though Merlin could not see much of their eyes beneath the hoods, he could feel the weight of their timeless gaze drilling through his core. Finally, Skuld spoke: _My sister Urðr was right when she said that it is not our place to interfere with the Destiny that has been written._

Merlin's fists clenched in a quickly crashing attempt to keep his composure. He had been given false hope, led along like a horse with an apple, and then dismissed even at the height of his impassioned pleas. Before he could protest, however, Skuld continued: _We cannot, Emrys. But perhaps_ you _can. We are the weavers of Destiny, but you are, perhaps in all the nine realms, one of the few who daily dons the shroud we weave. Your power and your purpose are great, and yet you are confined into a mortal body._

Verðani intoned, _Difficult as though you may find it to believe, Destiny has a soft spot for you. You, Emrys, are her beloved child, and though you suffer much on your journey, it is clear that she_ wants _you to succeed._

 _Sometimes_ , put in Urðr, _one must stop relying on the ones weaving destiny and take up the loom oneself._

His heart beat so manically he feared it might leap from his chest. "Are you saying…?"

 _Your Destiny is in_ your _hands now, Emrys,_ Skuld confirmed. A short silence, then, in the voice of one who has just come to a great revelation, _Perhaps… perhaps, it always_ has _been._

Merlin blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill, overwhelmed as he was with all he had been told, and the implications of his destiny, and when he cleared his vision, the Nornir were gone, and he was alone by the World-tree, with only their cryptic words to guide him.

"My destiny is in my hands," he said slowly, testing the words slowly, tasting their foreign flavors on his tongue. It was a novel idea, and something that warmed him to the core. Could he actually have some measure of control over his destiny? Ever since he had come to Camelot, he had had his destiny shoved down his throat. _This is what you will be,_ the voices of those older, and wiser, and more powerful than he had intoned. _What you want is irrelevant. This is what you will be, but do not ask how you will get there, for we cannot say._

But the concept of his having control over his own destiny? Of not being a slave to prophecies, but making his own choices, shaping his own future? Well, perhaps he had already started to do this without even realizing it. After all, what had he told the Nornir? It wasn't about Destiny, he'd said. It was about Arthur, because he _wanted_ to protect Arthur. He was no longer just fulfilling a destiny set out for him before his birth. He was following his heart, doing what _he_ wanted to do, and it just so happened that, at the moment, what he wanted for himself lined up with what Destiny had planned.

"My destiny is in my hands," he repeated again, more confident this time, and the buzz of excitement he felt ignite in his chest made him feel nearly giddy. Smiling widely for the first time in months, he strode forward, eyes blazing gold, for once Merlin and Emrys in perfect sync with one another as their hearts and destinies aligned. Lanky arms and long fingers reached out, and, with only the barest tremble in his bones as power he never knew he commanded unlocked from inside him, he lay hands on the Tree, the great Yggdrasil.

One by one, the runes began to glow, from the point of contact up to the highest branches and down past where the roots kissed the ground. He acted on instinct, exploring the raw power both in the tree and inside himself, letting them linger, feel, understand one another. And then, with his destiny's face firmly in his mind – Arthur, Arthur – Merlin closed his eyes, released the most intense and terrifying burst of power he had ever experienced from inside the recesses of his soul. When he opened his eyes, they were twin suns, brighter than a blazing flame, purer than the finest gold.

He screamed as the power fled him, sought out, searched for, reached out to his Destiny.

The world went white.

* * *

Arthur stared at the destruction before him with despair. The citadel was in shambles, with caved-in walls and ceilings, debris painting the layer of snow with a scene of total chaos. There were bodies, some stirring faintly, groaning as they tried to rise, and others that were stiff in death.

"It had to have been Vidar," Arthur whispered as he, Gwaine, Lancelot, Leon, and Astrid crouched in the freezing snow in a ditch a few yards outside of the citadel. "He must have attacked them, ransacked the village."

"But why, sire?" Leon whispered in return. "What would he have gained by it?"

"Vidar was a madman," Astrid supplied, seemingly much more comfortable with the prince and his men after her heartfelt conversation with Arthur on the pirate's ship last night. "He would have done this for fun."

Lancelot shook his head slowly, as if he were reasoning something out in his head. "It doesn't fit," the solemn warrior mused. "He was cold and calculated; he had a plan. He came upon the _Kala Elding_ – whether he sought us out or stumbled upon us, I cannot say – and took great joy in telling us that he had revealed to this Jarl that Merlin was not the true prince. He knew who we were, was going to take us back and try to sell us – at least you, Arthur, the real prince, to the Vikings. Why would he attack this place if he planned on trading with it later?"

He made a point, Arthur thought, but it didn't make him like the situation any more. In fact, it made their rescue plans much more complicated because they had no idea what had happened or what they might be walking into.

"Well," Gwaine said, making a show of clapping his hands together without actually making any sound – a sure sign he was sick of sitting around discussing things when he could be out there fighting things instead. Back on land, his face had finally regained most of its natural color, and he was determined to make up for the weakness he had shown Astrid when seasick. "No point standing around here wondering." A grim smile split his rugged face. "Let's go have a chat with the locals, yeah?"

It was a testament to how unnerved Arthur was by this whole situation that he let Gwaine lead the way into the citadel; something was not sitting right with him, something was missing, something was _wrong_ , but he couldn't put his finger on it, and that scared him more than he cared to admit. There was more going on here than what it looked like, he was sure of it.

* * *

They found the Jarl cowering behind his throne. He was a fat, ugly brute of a man who looked a bit more like the Avanc Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana had fought years before than he did an actual human person. There was a nasty cut on his forehead, and his housecarls were slumped on the throne room's floor – dead or unconscious, Arthur neither knew nor cared.

The Jarl was dead weight, and it took all of them, plus a bit of help from Astrid's magic, to get the stunned facsimile of a man up and propped against the wall. At first he did not speak when they questioned him, and it wasn't clear whether it was because of some tiny, hidden dregs of defiant courage or because he was simply too terrified to form coherent words. Finally, though, after some not-so-gentle persuasion and a promise that if he helped them, they'd fetch some food from the kitchens, he managed to stammer out, "S-sorcerer."

Arthur and Leon exchanged grim looks. "So it _was_ Vidar," Arthur sighed. "Damn."

The Jarl looked confused, and his triple chin wobbled as he cried, "N-no, not Vidar. H-he told us th-that the man in our dungeons was… was not P-Prince Arthur." Arthur's heart stuttered at the confirmation of his fears.

"And what?" he all but screamed, shaking – or attempting to shake – the grotesque man by the collar of his tunic. "What did you do then?"

"W-we planned an elaborate execution," the Jarl murmured. "Were not going t-to let him sl-sleight us that easily, w-without much pain, b-but… he escaped."

Arthur had to force himself to get past the implications of what they were going to do to his servant, his _friend_ , and concentrated on the Jarl's final words. "He escaped? How?"

The Jarl shuddered. "S-sorcerer."

Then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he passed out, whether from fear, hunger, thirst, or some unseen injury, Arthur didn't know. He didn't even care. He didn't like what the Jarl's words implied at all.

"What did he mean, 'sorcerer'?" Leon asked, eyes hard.

Lancelot and Gwaine exchanged a fearful, knowing glance that Arthur did not miss.

Astrid chewed her lip, her eyes alighting as realization came to her.

Arthur thought he knew exactly what the Jarl had meant, but he focused all of his energy on casting the absurd – painful, treacherous – possibility out of his mind. "It doesn't matter right now," he ground out, he teeth clenched, back stiff, breath tight in his chest. "Right now, we need—"

He broke off as he suddenly felt the world tilt crazily beneath his feet. His head swam, his equilibrium completely shot as his ears rang and knees buckled. He crashed down, cradling his head, and felt consciousness leave him, not even hearing the shouts of his companions as he collapsed.

When his eyes opened, he knew he was in a dream of some sort, because he felt completely strong and healthy, not slightly malnourished from months on the sea with little time or space for his usual training regimen. He felt whole… physically. But his emotions took a nosedive as his vision adjusted to the strange world he found himself in and he saw, standing over him, a great shining ash tree behind him, his servant, Merlin.

He was grinning madly, that same infuriating smile that he did so much, the one that made Arthur wonder if Merlin was the idiot he seemed to be or the wise man he sometimes alluded to in his words, loyalties, or actions. "Arthur!" he said, and he seemed genuinely happy to see his friend. There was one problem, though, one that took Arthur's understanding of life, of good and evil, of right and wrong, of purpose and friendship and family and the nature of magic, and threw it on its head, making him question everything – _everything_ – he'd thought he'd believed all his life. About himself, about his father, about magic… about Merlin.

Merlin's eyes were burning gold.


	19. Found and Lost Again

Arthur gaped at Merlin, eyes like saucers as he watched the dance of gleaming golden light play across his servant's irises. He felt as if all the air had been forced from his lungs; his chest hurt and his heart forgot how to beat. His discovery of Astrid's powers was _nothing_ compared to this, and the burning indignation and sense of betrayal were enough to drive out all relief at seeing Merlin again in favor of simmering, self-righteous anger.

With slow, measured, overly-precise words, the prince uttered, "Merlin. What in the _hell?_ "

To his credit, Merlin was either immensely brave or incredibly stupid, for he didn't squirm at all under the crushing weight of Arthur's accusatory tone. "Gods, Arthur, it is _so_ good to see you again!" the dark-haired sorcerer-apparent beamed. "I almost can't believe you came for me!"

"Neither can I," Arthur murmured, torn between his anger, confusion at Merlin's apparent lack of concern for what his master was currently witnessing, and a budding relief that was nudging its way into his heart unbidden. Glowing eyes, or not, he was looking at, talking to Merlin for the first time in months, since the servant had been captured in his stead. He cleared his throat, fighting against the tightness he found there, and against the burning at the back of his eyes, and spoke in a ragged voice, "What… what's happening? Where are we?"

"Well," Merlin said, glancing around with those eerie amber eyes, "from what I understand, the center of the universe – but don't expect me to even begin to be able to pronounce it!"

Arthur stared. "Merlin…"

"Yes, Arthur?"

Damn, even when his eyes were illegally and traitorously burning with forbidden magic, Merlin's grin was infectious. It was enough to drive Arthur mad.

"Do you… I mean, are you _aware_ ," he stuttered, cursing his command of language for abandoning him at this crucial moment. "Your eyes… they're… you know, glowing."

Merlin blinked. "They're what?"

"Glowing."

"With happiness?" Merlin ventured tentatively, real fear beginning to creep into his voice. "Relief?" With a nervous grin, he went so far as to suggest, "Unshed tears?"

"With _magic_ ," Arthur supplied, all the while thinking, _Gods, he doesn't even_ notice _he's radiating this much power? How powerful_ is _he?_ Arthur found that he really didn't want to know.

"I-I can explain," Merlin stammered, and he looked so small and pitiful, his eyes still gold, that Arthur almost found himself feeling sorry for him. Instead, he forced away any fond feelings he had for the … the – damn it – _sorcerer_ and waited for the aforementioned explanation. With a sudden jolt, Merlin's eyes flickered back to blue, then flashed a paler amber, and he amended hastily, "but not right now. I don't have much time."

Despite himself, Arthur felt his heart lurch in worry at the grave words. "Why not? You look just fine to me."

"No, no, it's just my… my spirit, I guess; I'm still back in the cave… I'm… I'm dying…"

At this declaration, Arthur thought that he should shrug and just allow the inevitable to happen – after all, sorcerers deserved death, did they not? With a pulse of disgust toward that empirical voice so much like his father's that had been plaguing him for most of this journey – be it about his decision to risk his life for a servant or, later, accept help knowingly from a magic user – Arthur shoved the terrible concept out of his mind. _I came all this way to save him,_ he reasoned with himself. _It would be… irresponsible… to leave without him now._

 _He's evil,_ the voice piped up yet again, and Arthur was surprised at the surge of anger that accompanied it this time – not at Merlin, but at the voice, at Arthur, himself.

 _I can decide what to do with him_ after _I've retrieved him,_ he decided, and he shoved the almost physical wall of doubt, hurt, and anger to the very back of his consciousness, hopefully trapping that nasty voice behind it for the time being. There would be time enough for self-doubt later. Right now, if what Merlin said was true, Arthur was running out of time to rescue him.

"Arthur? _Arthur!_ " With a start, the prince raised haunted eyes to meet Merlin's and saw an overwhelming flood of emotions brewing just beneath the molten gold seas. From the terrified look that his servant – or was it ex-servant now? _No, I can figure this out later._ – shot him, Arthur assumed that Merlin wasn't quite as adept at hiding his feelings as he was his magic.

"Merlin." Arthur didn't know how long he had been standing there, lost in his own musings, but once he got another good look at the raven-haired young man, he realized that his body seemed less substantial than it had been before. "You're fading."

"Arthur, I swear – _I swear_ – that I will explain everything to you. But not now. I can't; I'm losing strength."

Arthur's gut jolted unpleasantly. "How the hell am I supposed to save your worthless hide, Merlin?" the prince snapped waspishly, and it didn't escape his notice that Merlin flinched at the banter that would, in any other time, place, or situation, be commonplace for them. It made Arthur feel an incredible amount of guilt, like he'd hurt a helpless kitten, which in turn made him angry, because he wasn't supposed to feel bad for hurting anyone's feelings, especially a sorcerer's. "I don't suppose you have clear directions to this 'center of the universe,' do you? Or is this like the time I answered Morgause's challenge, where the horse just knew?" He couldn't help the bitterness from seeping into his voice at this point, but, he reasoned, it wasn't like Merlin didn't deserve it.

"I told you, I'm not _physically –_ oh, never mind. Follow your instincts; listen to your heart. We're connected by destiny, and I believe the Tree has strengthened our link even more."

"The _Tree_? Have you lost your bloody mind? You want me to talk to a tree and 'follow my heart'? I'm right; you _are_ a girl's petticoat."

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

As Merlin faded away, like a white wolf vanishing into a snowstorm, with only the last lingering vision of his glowing eyes to indicate he'd even been there, Arthur knew that Merlin hadn't been apologizing for sounding like a girl; there were years of regrets nested in the words. Problem was, Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to listen to them.

The world around him began to bristle with black spots, and he felt dizziness overtake him as he toppled, tumbled, fell to the ground in a heap.

Nothing.

* * *

He woke up to see Gwaine, Leon, Lancelot, and Astrid hovering over him, various degrees of concern and impatience on their respective faces.

"What happened?" Despite the vertigo that had overcome him earlier, he felt absolutely fine, other than the horrible memory of Merlin with magic lurking dangerously in his mind's eye.

"You fainted, like a swooning damsel," Gwaine proclaimed almost gleefully, the look in his brown eyes promising that this incident would most assuredly come back to haunt Arthur in the future. "Ow!" he grinned sheepishly and rubbed his side where Astrid had elbowed him, none-too-gently, at his unflattering portrayal of women. "Sorry."

Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow. Gwaine was actually apologizing for something? He must have really been smitten with the sorceress.

The eyebrow lowered with his gaze as he thought once again about all that had transpired while he had been out (of consciousness? of body?). "How long was I unconscious?"

Leon gripped his monarch's shoulder in a display of strength, comradery, and relief. "About ten minutes; no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't wake you."

"Leo was about to start crying," Gwaine announced jovially, and this time, it was Lancelot who jammed an elbow into his ribs.

"OW! What the hell, Prancelot?"

"Time and place, Gwaine," the dark-haired warrior hissed, impatience wrestling with amusement in his dark eyes. Lancelot sounded so much like a scolding parent and Gwaine a chastised child that Arthur had to refrain from letting out a rather frantic laugh – the stress was really getting to him now.

"Are you all right, Sire?" Leon continued.

Arthur nodded and accepted the proffered hand, and was levered to his feet. "I'm fine," was his gruff response – more or less true, because he was okay physically, if not emotionally, at the moment, and the emotional baggage could wait until he had more time. "I…" He hesitated, remembering clearly Merlin's strangely heartfelt (and girly, though Arthur wasn't about to say this in front of Astrid) instructions. Closing his eyes, feeling utterly ridiculous even as he held up a hand to halt any further questions until he was done, Arthur tried to tune in to what his instincts – he would _not_ follow his heart – and was surprised when a picture of a cave popped into his mind, tattooing itself in its memory, and then, as if some unsubstantial being were behind him, pushing him forward with a gentle nudge, his feet seemed to move of their own accord.

Eyes snapping open, disbelieving excitement beginning to stir up something strangely akin to hope in his chest, he gestured at his nonplussed companions. "With me."

"Arthur… where are you going? We need a plan!" Arthur ignored Lancelot's logic and continued trudging through the snow, hardly feeling the snow stinging his face now that he was so close.

"Just… follow me. I think I know where Merlin is."

"Are you telling me that _you_ have magic powers now?" Gwaine groused – Arthur ignored him – even as his voice maintained its distance, and snow crunched under four sets of boots, indicating that the others were following him.

* * *

They traveled for hours, and after so much time of numbing cold and frozen toes, even Arthur's enthusiasm had faded somewhat.

"We're getting close, I know it," the prince declared for the fifth time that hour. A series of unintelligible grunts were his answer, proving that his fellow travelers were even less convinced that he knew what he was doing than even he was at this point.

* * *

They stumbled upon the cave with no warning; Arthur had been cursing himself for his stupidity and gullibility for a good fifteen minutes, and there was no indication that anything had changed – no shift in the atmosphere, no reinvigorated instinct, nothing.

In fact, it wasn't even Arthur who discovered it. He'd been busy second guessing himself – no time like the present, when one's mistakes were laid out so obviously in one's head, after all – and had been startled when Astrid suddenly elbowed him aside ("I am a _prince_!" Arthur protested indignantly, after which Gwaine and Lancelot shot past him as well, Gwaine with a sarcastic little bow and flourish, aiming for the cave entrance that Astrid had spotted.) Leon, ever loyal, lingered behind with Arthur. "Are you all right, Sire?"

Arthur hesitated, unsure if he should tell his most trusted knight what he had learned about Merlin. It wasn't a matter of trust; Arthur knew with completely certainty that he could trust Sir Leon with anything – his life, the lives of his friends – but if he said it out loud, it would make it all the more real. If he didn't say it aloud, didn't whisper about his servant's betrayal in hushed, uncertain tones, then maybe things could somehow go back to the way they were. No magic. No suspicion. No betrayal. Simple.

Nothing had ever been simple with Merlin, though, had it?

Shaking off the gloom that had been coating him like a layer of snow, Arthur allowed a grim half-smile to show through his uncertainty. "I just… I hope we find him." Hesitated for a fraction of a second, breath hitched. "Alive."

Leon didn't say anything else, but clapped Arthur on the back in a show of solidarity.

Arthur was saved from having to come up with any further response when Gwaine's voice whooped from up ahead, the thick layer of snow seemingly eating any echo that might have resonated from the cave entrance. "He's here!"

Without another thought, Arthur took off with a renewed energy, ignoring the slippery snow fingers grasping at his boots, trying to slow him down. He didn't check to see if Leon was keeping up. In that moment, he didn't even contemplate the unsettling revelations he'd discovered about his servant, so intent he was on seeing for his own eyes that his servant – _friend, sorcerer_ – was there.

He came to a sudden halt right outside the cave; it was as if an invisible barrier had been erected over the mouth of the gap in the rock face. Arthur could see the eerie flickering firelight licking futilely at the craggy shadows, could hear the sounds of frantic shuffling and low, murmured voices coming from inside, but he inexplicably couldn't convince his feet to move. He wasn't scared – surely not. Not anxious, either – but why were his fingers trembling? Cold – that was it! But he knew it wasn't the cold twisting his insides like sopping laundry in the hands of a maid.

It was, in fact, a battalion of _what-ifs_ , armed with cutting words and terrible scenarios: What if he's dead? What if you're too late? What if you have to turn him over to your father? What if he's the enemy? What if… what if… what if.

Arthur very nearly jumped at the light touch on his shoulder, but steeled himself, with a glance back at Leon, and made his way into the cave. It took a few long seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light compared to the bright white snow reflecting cold sunshine, but once he'd blinked a few times, the world swam back into a shadowy kind of focus.

A fire had been lit in the middle of the cave – but he'd known that already. On one side of the fire, the one closest to the entrance, was curled up a shivering, wheezing form – at first Arthur stepped forward, sure that it was Merlin, but quickly saw, even in the low light, that the silhouette was all wrong – too short, skinny even for Merlin, wrong hair, ears a normal size. Astrid was kneeling beside the figure, talking to it in low, questioning tones.

Slowly, dreading what he might find deeper in the cave, Arthur allowed his eyes to roam until they landed upon what, at first glance, appeared to be some kind of grotesque, three-headed monster. Once the shadows had separated, however, he saw that it was in actuality Gwaine and Lancelot, kneeling next to one another. And in their arms, propped between them…

In their arms, limp like a child's doll…

Merlin.


	20. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the bit of a wait, folks! I had written myself into a bit of a corner, and it took me a bit to figure out how to write myself out. The good news is, although this is a bit more of a filler chapter than most have been, this story is going to end up a few chapters longer than I was thinking, and we've got a bit more action and whump coming up before the end, so… that's good. This chapter sets the stage for the final few chapters, the final hurdle for our characters, if you will, and provides a lot of Arthur introspection. Not a whole lot of interaction in this chapter, but I promise, the comfort part of the hurt/comfort genre is coming soon – as well as that coveted post-reveal chat between prince and warlock! :) Also, there's a line pirated from How to Train Your Dragon in this chapter. See if you can find it. :) Please enjoy, and review!

"What are we going to do?"

For the life of him, Arthur had no answer to that question he had posed as he sat glumly at the back of the cave, watching the impossible flames lick hungrily at the air. It was warm – much warmer than it should have been, because it should have not been possible to light, much less keep a fire going without any kindling. The snow had soaked through, thoroughly wetting, any potential firewood. And yet, when they'd made their way into the shelter, there had been a fire crackling in the center. It had been dying out, however – which, considering who the fire was connected to, summoned some concern for Merlin's well-being – until Astrid had used her own magic to build it up again.

Now, it was almost cozy, the unnatural heat caressing them comfortingly as they sat and considered their predicament.

This was the first time any of them had gotten to take a rest in the couple of hours since they'd found Merlin. Between the five of them, they'd stripped off the outer clothes of the two young men huddled by the fire, assessed the damage, bandaged and cleaned the wounds the best they could with what little supplies they had, and had bundled them up again by the fire. Once every fifteen minutes or so, they took turns rising to check temperatures and make sure their charges' conditions didn't change for the worse. Arthur had just had his turn, and though Merlin's temperature didn't seem to have risen any in the past few minutes, it hadn't gotten any better, either. Perhaps even more concerning was the fact that while his forehead seethed with fever, his extremities were like ice.

"He's freezing," Lancelot had supplied helpfully, "but he's also ill, which is causing his fever to rise."

And that was where they found themselves now, all grimly pondering Arthur's question and the quandary they had found themselves in: "What are we going to do?"

Despite the revelation that Merlin had magic, the thought that he could have finally tracked down his servant only to lose him to an even more permanent foe – death – sickened Arthur. Deeply conflicted by what he'd discovered about his friend and yet unable to quell that irritating gnaw of worry, Arthur had alternated between sitting across the cave, as far as he could get from the man, and hovering anxiously over his still form as one of the others checked his fever and his wounds. Right now, he was opting for avoidance, but he couldn't seem to keep his gaze off of the man lying on the other side of the fire.

He hadn't told any of the others what he'd seen in his … vision? He still wasn't sure what it was, to be honest, but the only thing he  _did_ know was that it was unequivocally real. He hadn't imagined it, and so he hadn't imagined that Merlin had magic, either. He'd told them just enough to satisfy their voracious curiosity, though by the edgy and inquisitive looks on the other men's faces, he suspected that their sated curiosity was rapidly becoming unsated as time wore on. Astrid's face was unreadable. Arthur wondered if she sensed Merlin's magic, if that was something that magic-users could do. Either way, the sorceress seemed satisfied to sit beside the other young man they'd discovered with Merlin, and she didn't look to be pressing for answers to Arthur's sudden supernatural insight on where their quarry was anytime soon.

Which led him to yet another mystery… who was this boy with Merlin? Judging by the young man's thin stature, ragged clothes, and poor health, he too had been a captive of the Vikings. But why was he with Merlin? If the servant had had a chance to escape, why would he have risked lugging another person along with him to slow him down? Arthur didn't have to think about it for more than a couple of seconds. Merlin would have brought this poor boy along because he needed help, and Merlin never could pass up anyone who needed help. Feeling a slight smile creep up on his face, Arthur banished it sternly, but could not so easily dismiss the thoughts that now crowded his overfed brain:  _Merlin is kind. He couldn't see someone suffering like this and_ not _help them. How is that the mark of an evil sorcerer?_

The answer was simple, and yet his father's voice and his own upbringing wouldn't allow him to acknowledge it for long:  _It isn't._

Arthur allowed his eyes to wander back to Astrid and the stranger. He thought back to his conversation with Merlin earlier, in his vision – or whatever it was – as they stood near that giant tree with a name apparently neither Arthur nor Merlin could pronounce. He'd said something about coal being back at the cave, but there was no coal fueling the fire. No coal to be seen anywhere. So maybe…

"I think his name is Coal," Arthur announced. When four pairs of eyes stared at him, startled and curious, he added brusquely, "Or something."

Astrid's intense gaze snapped up to meet his in the flickering light of the fire, and he almost flinched back into the wall at the look in her eyes. "How do you know this?" she asked, her face like stone.

"I… I just do," Arthur said lamely, ignoring the weight of the others' disbelieving gazes.

Carefully brushing the damp bangs from the boy's forehead in a display of tenderness that took the men off guard, she whispered, "It cannot be. I thought… his looks are familiar, but I never…"

Gwaine shifted where he sat beside an oblivious Merlin. His voice was soft. "Your brother? The one who was killed by Vikings?"

"Kolfred wasn't killed. He was taken. But I never imagined that he could survive even one winter with them. He was always so frail and sickly, and he was just a child. But he is the right age, and he has that same kindness, the same demeanor, even in sleep. But how…?"

Suddenly a voice spoke up, rougher than a dragon's hide and more pained than a plague victim's garbled speech. Every word was gasped, punctuated by severe stuttering and harsh coughs, but it was a voice that Arthur and his friends had been longing to hear for months, and despite himself, the prince felt an unspeakable joy fill him at the first words he'd heard Merlin speak – actually, in person, not in a magic vision, speak – since they'd been ambushed nearly half a year before.

"Maybe…" the servant wheezed, "…Kol is just … a lot stronger … than you ever … gave him … credit for." Another grinding cough. "I wouldn't … have made it … without him."

Maybe there was some semblance of hope, after all.

* * *

Two weeks.

Technically, it had been twelve days since they'd been reunited, and while Kol had gradually, painfully been building up his strength and health, Merlin constantly teetered on the edge of staying the same and getting worse. He'd barely spoken a word since his breathless but heartfelt endorsement of his new friend, spending half of his time in delirium and the other half in deep unconsciousness. In the very rare moments when he was aware and seemingly lucid, he only had eyes for Arthur, and there was a horrible fear in them that nothing the prince could say could banish. It was in those moments that Arthur knew that Merlin knew that Arthur knew… and gods, this was a confusing mess.

On the one hand, the prince had held onto the flimsy hope that perhaps if Merlin didn't remember the vision exchange where Arthur had discovered his secret, maybe it hadn't actually happened and Arthur's knowledge of where to find the missing man had just been some mad fluke. But in his times of coherency, few and far between though they were, Merlin, though too weak and sick to speak, showed plainly enough that he indeed did remember – which meant that it had happened, which meant that Arthur was still going to have to deal with the fallout of all of this, providing, of course, that Merlin even survived this at all.

Arthur had been spending so much time helping the others to nurse Merlin and Kol that he hadn't had the time or the emotional strength to think much on what exactly said fallout would involve. But as Kol's lungs slowly grew stronger and he was steadily brought back to health by Astrid's tender care, there was less to do around their improvised shelter, and Arthur found himself thinking more and more. They took turns hunting – not that there was much by way of food, but on the days when a blizzard wasn't effectively raging outside, they always managed to snag some wild, snow-adapted fowl or rodent – and although Arthur tried to use his place as royalty to bully the most time outside of the cave, he knew that the others needed to get out as much as he did. He knew this as much as he knew that the new normal they'd found themselves in couldn't last.

"We have to leave," Arthur announced.

Gwaine blinked, cocking his head. "I'm sorry?"

"Merlin isn't getting any better," Arthur said; he'd become very good at stating the obvious after spending fortnight upon fortnight with the likes of Gwaine. "He needs help, something we cannot find here. We have to take the risk, take him back to Gaius."

"That's madness," Lancelot muttered, glancing at the far too still and pale Merlin. "I don't know that he would survive just the journey to the ship, let alone the grueling time on the sea back to Camelot."

"We don't have many other options," Arthur sighed. "Trust me, I hate the idea too. But he's not going to get any better without a healer, and the longer we delay, the sicker he'll get. If he's to have any chance at all, we have to move, and soon."

Astrid, who had been helping her newly found brother regain much of his strength by regular walks around the perimeter of the cave, spoke up. "It is certainly risky, but if you decide to take this course of action – or whenever you decide it is time to return to your homeland, you have my service to get you there. You have done more for me than you can ever truly comprehend, Arthur Pendragon. You and your men have stood by me despite my magic, and you have reunited me with Kolfred. Whatever you need, whatever you decide, we will aid you to the best of our ability."

Kol chipped in, "Merlin saved my life in many ways. I would be dead if not for him, so I, too, pledge my service to help you all return safely home." He paused, leaning against the cave wall for support as he looked at the figure curled up close to the fire. "He's a good man."

"So it's settled," Leon said after a long silence. "We leave for Camelot at tomorrow's light."

Gwaine let out a frustrated growl. "I'm telling you, there is no way he's going to survive the trip back to Camelot. He needs a healer first. There has to be  _somewhere_  we can find one to at least improve his chances around here."

Arthur couldn't help but snort in unamused laughter. Walking to the yawning mouth of the cave, he gestured in grand sarcasm at the swirling white abyss of the mountains outside. "Tell me, Gwaine. Do you see a citadel? A town? Even a hovel? The only place within reasonable distance is the place we just came from, and it's crawling with enemies. I don't think there's one person who would be willing to help us, even if we were to ask nicely."

Merlin chose that moment to speak, his voice harsh and breathless. It was the first he'd spoken in quite a while, and he sounded horrible, but even so, Arthur was relieved to hear that not all strength had left him yet. "Onäm…" he wheezed.

Kol stared at his friend like he was delirious. "Has his fever grown?" he asked. "He must be hallucinating from the illness. Merlin, out of all of the men we escaped, Onäm hates you the most. In no way would he ever—"

"…'s mother," Merlin finished after a greedy, long draw of air that crackled with phlegm and disuse.

Kol still stared at Merlin, but if Arthur was reading the boy's face correctly, there was a bit more hope there than there had been moments before. "Eir…" he breathed. "He might be right, you know. Onäm's mother, Eir, is our healer. She is a tough woman, but is, in her own way, kind." His eyes softened as he remembered. "She was the only one to ever care for me. Even the prisoners we took, when sent to her, were treated well and cared for like they weren't heading straight for the work yard or the dungeon…" He considered. "She may be a Viking, but patients come first. And I think she quite liked Merlin, actually. She helped me get some extra food and bedding for him when I could, after he'd been, well… imprisoned." He smiled, but the effect was a bit grimmer than it should have been because of his pale, thin face and deep circles beneath his eyes. "Eir is the best shot we have at returning Merlin to Camelot alive."

"But that means we would have to penetrate the citadel again," Leon mused. "It would be very dangerous."

"They would in no way be expecting us to attack again, especially so soon," Arthur rebutted, turning their options around slowly in his head. "And their manpower will be significantly weaker with the men they've lost so many men."

Kol gaped at the prince. "You killed them?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "No. There had already been an attack before we arrived. Many were injured, many dead. There were a few men to contend with, but I suspect most survivors were in hiding, licking their wounds. Whoever attacked before us did a thorough job." He couldn't help but notice the way that Kol's wide-eyed gaze drifted towards Merlin, who seemed to have fallen back asleep, spent by the little energy it took to engage in conversation.

"So with any luck, we can get in, grab the healer lady, and bring her back here to treat Merlin with no other problems," Gwaine suggested, as always vying nearer to the side of optimism.

"It's been nearly two weeks since then. They will have recovered remarkably well in that time," Kol warned. "Their numbers may have been weakened, but they are still Vikings. They're used to bloody battles. It's an occupational hazard."

"We need a plan if this is to work," Lancelot put in, now joining Arthur and Gwaine in the time-honored art of stating the obvious.

"Someone will have to stay here with Merlin," Leon said.

"I will," Kol offered, but Arthur shook his head.

"We need you with us, since you know the place."

"If he goes, I go," Astrid demanded. "We have too many years to catch up on, and I am not going to chance missing them."

"Fine," Arthur conceded with a distracted wave of his hand. "We will need your… skills, at any rate." He huffed out a great, stressed puff of air. He wanted to go,  _needed_  to go, but… Astrid had put it very well. He might not have  _years_  to catch up on with Merlin, at least not literally, but… the man Arthur thought he had known might possibly be a lie. The prince hadn't had a chance to talk to Merlin about what he'd discovered, about the… about the magic, and the thought of leaving without having that discussion, to return to find Merlin had succumbed to his illness and injuries despite their efforts… It was painful, and impossible to ignore.

Still, the men here were his responsibility. They'd risked their lives accompanying him to a foreign, bitter land to save their mutual friend. He could not just leave them. He was a prince, a warrior. He was meant to  _lead_. If the others were going to put themselves into the path of danger, then it was his duty to do the same to protect them. His personal feelings and uncertainties would have to be put on hold. After all, that was what a prince … what a  _king_  was meant to do.

"Kol, Astrid, and myself are going back to the village," Arthur announced. "We need one to stay here with Merlin."

"I'll do it," Lancelot and Gwaine intoned at the same time, then glared at one another.

Arthur groaned. "We don't – no,  _Merlin_  doesn't have time for you two ladies to fight about who is staying here with him." His voice booked no room for argument. "One of you needs to concede." When neither backed down, he added, "Either way, you will be protecting him."

After staring one another down for another long moment, Gwaine looked up and caught the eyes of Arthur, then Astrid, who smiled at him. "Come with us, Gwaine," she said softly, her voice dripping with luxuriousness.

After a brief moment of deliberation, Gwaine nodded at her, then turned to Lancelot and did the same. "If it means getting some more justice for Merlin, I'll go," he agreed.

Arthur could have kissed Astrid for her intervention just then… could have, but didn't, because she would have slapped him and Gwaine might possibly have tried to stab him. Whatever had developed between the two, Arthur didn't want to get in the way of, mainly because it consisted of long, lustful gazes, steamy silences, and the occasional slap to a bearded face when Gwaine decided to move too quickly.

Arthur then looked to Leon. "You know I'm with you, sire," the loyal knight declared, and Arthur dipped his head in thanks.

"We leave at first light tomorrow," Arthur decided. "Lancelot will stay here and take care of Merlin. We will attempt to sneak our way into the castle, but will fight if need be. We will procure the healer, bring her here, and hopefully she can get Merlin healthy enough to survive the trip back to Camelot."

Arthur just hoped Merlin would last long enough for them to get her there.


End file.
